


Like Real People Do.

by psyleedee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Castiel and Dean Winchester are Neighbors, Confrontations, Drama, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Identity Reveal, Late Night Conversations, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Marine Corps Dean Winchester, Nurse Castiel (Supernatural), Older Dean Winchester, Recollections of War/Violence, Romantic Comedy, Secret Identity, Slice of Life, Slow Romance, Strangers to Lovers, Violinist Castiel (Supernatural), Young Castiel (Supernatural), brief mentions of homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 57,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27298456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psyleedee/pseuds/psyleedee
Summary: Castiel Novak is content with the way he lives his life. A steady night job as a nurse at New York's finest hospitals and a part-time day job as a music instructor keeps him busy all through the week. And the prospect of love? Not in question.That is until one fine afternoon, a knock sounds on the wall of his apartment flat, while he's in the midst of a violin lesson, a man's voice begging him to correct the tuning on his student's violin.There onwards, the two men, although separated by a thin wall, begin to find solace within each other. On one side, a young, wide-eyed man, with exceptional hopes from his future and sparkles in his eyes, and on the other, a war veteran, with bleak despair, the weight of the world on his shoulders.No names exchanged, no pictures to see, no liabilities to hold to each other, but wonders of the universe, whispered to each other in the lone hours of the day.The clock is ticking. They have three months before they move away. Can love convince two men, poles apart in life, to allow fate to merge their paths?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Past Cassie Robinson/Dean Winchester - Relationship, background Sam Winchester/Jessica Moore - Relationship
Comments: 70
Kudos: 178
Collections: DCBB 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, before we get into the story, I have some things to say. First off, this is my first time participating in the DCBB and I'm super stoked about it! I've really put in a lot of time and emotions into this story, and I hope you guys like it as well.
> 
> Second of all, I'd like to thank my beta reader [expectingtofly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/expectingtofly/pseuds/expectingtofly) for being super supportive and just an amazing freakin' human being and helping my (kinda clueless ass) with corrections and advice. It was so fun having you with me on this journey, K. I'm so grateful to you.💖
> 
> Next, I'd like to thank my artist, the one and only, [lotrspnfangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotrspnfangirl/pseuds/lotrspnfangirl) (whom I may or may not have admired for months even before we paired up 👉👈) and I just want to scream about the absolutely gorgeous art she made for my fic. Thank you so much for choosing my fic, and I'm so happy to have had you with me on this experience.
> 
> Lastly, thanks to the moderators for being so approachable and for putting up this big bang, which mind you, takes a lot of effort and time, and especially with the pandemic going on, kudos to the moderators for being with us every step of the way! 
> 
> Alright, I'm done. You can get to the fic now, folks.

_Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me, why should you not speak to me? And why should I not speak to you?_

— _Walt Whitman._

* * *

Fresh, steaming hot coffee drizzles into Castiel's favourite honey-bee cartoon mug, and he shuffles over to the side of the counter, grabbing a creamer for his beverage. The warm, bitter-sweet aroma of rich, unadulterated coffee drifts through the air as Castiel rips the creamer packet open, pouring it into the mug as the last few drops of coffee drip down from the machine. 

He pulls the mug away, and throws a brief glance towards the grandfather clock resting against the corner of the living room. 

It's about ten minutes until the clock strikes four-thirty on the dot. With a content sigh, Castiel steps away, walking over to the large window spanning the outer wall of his apartment, eyes wandering over the stillness before him.

The view from up here, the fifth floor, isn't quite entertaining— at least not at this time of the day. A few people walk down the streets, groceries in hand, or backpacks slung over a single shoulder, as the trees sway to the tune of a gentle, cool autumn breeze, and the soft chirps of a few sparrows rise up in the distance. 

He sips his coffee, pursing his lips as he leans back against a support beam, one he's adorned with pieces of abstract art he'd bought at an auction last year. 

Jack, his student, reaches here at four-thirty precisely, every Thursday, and since he has about five minutes left on the clock, Castiel decides to go through his student's notes once again. The coffee is set aside as he grabs the bundle of papers ~~,~~ and flips through the pages, dog-earring one in the midst, the fourth page, he reckons, before setting the sheets back onto the music stand. He grabs his coffee, blowing a gentle breath over the mug, and smiles when he takes a sip. Perfect. Not too hot, not too cold. 

Castiel glances back at the clock ~~,~~ and oh, well, it's almost a minute left to go, which means Jack must be on his way up. 

They've been practicing O Sole Mio on the violin for about a week now, and although ~~,~~ Jack has mastered most of the piece, Castiel wants him to perfect it. He knows Jack is his finest student, fingers working with ease at the strings when he plays, which is why Castiel nagged him about enrolling in a state wide talent hunt, the winners of which are promoted to members of a highly respected and cherished orchestra group, New York City Orchestra. 

Fed up with Castiel's persistent encouragement, Jack did end up enrolling, despite whining to Castiel about his stage fright. Castielhas known the boy for almost two years now, and within the span of these two years, they've grown quite close, not only as a student and ~~a~~ teacher, but also as companions. 

The buzzer rings at four-thirty p.m. sharp ~~,~~ as it always does, and Castiel dashes across the floor, walking over to swing the door open. 

Shaggy, brown hair greets him, hazel eyes peering up at him from under, and Castiel smiles. "Good afternoon." 

"Afternoon' Cas," Jack says, and walks inside, his violin case held in his hands as he slings his knapsack down onto Castiel's sofa. 

"How was school?" 

"Boring." Jack blows a raspberry, slumping down on the sofa as Castiel heads into the kitchen to grab a glass of water for him. 

"Nothing new?" 

"Nope. Math was meh. English was cool, we drifted off topic, ended up debating about diversity in late nineties literature." 

"Sounds interesting, Jack. So, have you been practicing?" 

Jack straightens up, a guilty look crawling across his face, and Castiel smiles. Of course, he hasn't. But Castiel doesn't quite blame him. After all, he's got homework and assignments ~~,~~ and tests to study for. 

"Not really,” Jack says. “I practiced once, after I came home on Tuesday, but that's it." 

Castiel settles down next to him. "It's alright, I understand. We can take it from the top, yes?" 

Jack's face lights up, and he pushes himself to his feet, puffing his chest out as he sends Castiel a mock salute, before walking over to the stand with his violin case. Castiel simply shakes his head. _Whatever will I do about this boy._

"Why don't you go through the sheets? I'll tune the strings for you," Castiel suggests, and Jack hands over his violin with a brief nod. His eyes drift across the notes drawn across each page as Castiel sets the violin at his shoulder, fingers twisting the pegs, judging purely from experience. 

"'Kay, I'm ready." The sheet music is settled back onto the stand as Jack holds his hand out, bow clutched in the other.

Castiel hands the violin back to him, and sits down at the sofa. "We practiced the first verse on Tuesday, and you know the song is short, the verse is repeated. But what matters is your technique. I want it to be smooth, alright?" 

Jack nods and, with a breath of conviction, rests his chin on the chin rest, turns to the stand, and commences playing. 

The pitch is fine ~~,~~ and the melody is steady, soothing to the ears, and right as the crescendo nears— 

_Whoomp_. 

The melody breaks off as the loud whoomping noise draws both Castiel’s and his student's attention. At first, Castiel glances at his kitchen, wondering if something dropped from one of the shelves, but Jack nudges his shoulder, tipping his head ~~,~~ towards the empty, accent wall of the room, beside which he is standing.

Castiel falters, "Oh, uh, it's probably the new neighbour. They moved in recently.”

"Must be the unpacking." 

"Must be." Castiel shrugs. 

"Did you meet them?" 

"Well, not really. It's only been a day or two. Besides, I hate small talk. Why do I need to go over to some stranger's house to talk to them for absolutely no reason besides compelling them to acknowledge my existence?" 

Jack chuckles, raising an uncertain eyebrow as he quirks his lips, and proceeds to mimic Castel’s voice. "I don't know, maybe so you can provide them with an _amicable environment to thrive in_." 

"No thanks, I'll pass." Castiel rolls his eyes, before narrowing them at Jack. "Also, mister, we’re in the middle of a session. So, less chatter, more music, yes?" 

With a nod, Jack resumes, sliding the bow against the strings with ease. Castiel shuts his eyes, leaning forward to rest his hands on his chin as he listens. The pitch falters once, and Jack apologises before Castiel can point it out. He takes it from the top once more. _Alright, good, good crescendo, good_ _—_

A sharp, off-key twang bounces in the air ~~,~~ and Jack pauses. Castiel opens his eyes ~~,~~ to check the problem. "What's wrong?" he asks, as he straightens up. 

"Must be a peg, I'll tune it." 

"I've tuned it already; it should be working fine." Castiel pushes himself up to his feet ~~,~~ and walks over to Jack, reaching out for the violin to inspect it. 

"Maybe you did it wrong." 

"No, no, the tuning can't be wrong, I did it myself about ten minutes ago. Jack, pay attention to the notes, please. Play it from the top." 

"Alright" 

And so, the first verse to O Sole Mio fills the room once again. Although to the common ear, the music might sound excellent, to Castiel's ear, the melody is gritty at the edges, and it can be better, it can always be better.

Right as Jack transitions into the chorus, the twang sounds again, and _God_ , that noise. Simply prickling under Castiel's skin. 

Jack pauses once more, a creeping irritation twitching at his lips. Castiel, who has been pacing around all this while, stops in his tracks and sighs. 

"What's happening?" he asks, his voice losing its calm every passing second. 

"I don't know, I'm playing the note on the sheet, teach, maybe it's the tuning—" 

"I've told you, it's not the tuning. Show me the sheet." Castiel snatches the sheet, eyebrows furrowed as he reads along the notes. He flips right to the marked page, the one they are in the midst of learning, and compels himself to read through every single note, every single instruction, even though he's written them down himself. 

"Give me the violin," he says, and holds his hands out. Jack sets the instrument down into his hands, and Castiel steps in front of the stand, although he doesn’t quite need the sheet music.

He rests his chin against the rest, and runs his bow against the strings. The melody at his fingertips is smooth, soft around the edges, his hand controlled over the bow due to his years of experience, as he glides the bow against the— 

“Dammit.” The twang rises again ~~,~~ and Castiel curses, letting his hand fall away from his shoulder, as he leans over to inspect the pegs at the end of the neck. 

"Could be the tun—" A sharp glare from Castiel shuts Jack up, and Jack purses his lips, a peculiar amusement glinting in his eyes as he watches Castiel struggle with the instrument. 

_Aright, let's get to the bottom of this,_ Castiel thinks, beginning to inspect the violin. Right as he reaches the second peg— 

**_Thump, thump, thump._**

A desperate knock startles both Jack and himself ~~,~~ and Castiel jumps back, eyes wide as he glances at the wall in front of him. "Was that... Was that the wall?" 

Jack nods with a gulp. 

_A knock? On the wall? What?_

Castiel falters, mouth hung open as he steps closer to the wall, hands lowering, as he leans into where he supposes the knock sounded from. "Hello?" 

"The kid's right," a voice, deep and husky, laced with a strong, southern drawl, chimes in from behind the wall, accompanied with a sigh of controlled exasperation. 

_Woah, what is that? And who is that?_

"Excuse me?" Castiel scoffs, eyes narrow as he stares at a blank spot on the wall. 

"Didn't mean to eavesdrop, man, just—the kid's right. The tuning's wrong. Please, I haven't gotten any sleep in the past three days, and I can't keep listening to you mess up the chorus. Please, for the love of God, tune the damn thing." 

_Alright_. 

Castiel purses his lips and shuts his eyes as he draws in a deep breath. A few feet away from him, Jack suppresses a snort, and Castiel shoots him a glare. 

"First of all, there's something known as minding your own business, and second of all," Castiel gulps, shrugging a nonchalant shoulder, "there's nothing wrong with my tuning?!" 

A pause, before the strange man speaks up again. "Never said your tuning was wrong, said the violin's tuning was wrong." 

_Oh. He thinks he’s funny, huh?_

Castiel's mouth drops open, and he leans back, an offended spark in his eyes. "I'm sorry, have you ever played a violin before?" 

"Nah, but you don't really need expertise to know when the note's wrong, now, do ya’?" 

Unbelievable. _How dare he?_ Eavesdropping into a person's private life, offering his absolutely unsolicited advice on how to tune a violin, as if Castiel's experience as a professional musician for the past twelve years is worth nothing, _and_ interrupting their session. Simply unbelievable. 

"I'm going to prove to you that the tuning is right, and that you don't need to poke your little nose into our affairs again." 

Truth is, either way, Castiel is going to be the one at fault. If his notes turn out wrong, his fault. Tuning not right, his fault again. But then again, he's positive the tuning won't be wrong. He knows it. 

"Look, man, seriously, I don't give a shit about the tuning. I'm just trying to catch a nap for a while. So, please, get it over with." 

Castiel huffs and furrows his eyebrows, narrowing his gaze at no one in particular, as he reaches for the pegs. He tightens the first peg, only to find it tuned right, and moves onto the second one, once again grinning smug to himself when it's on the right pitch, and moves to the third— 

A soft ‘ _oh_ ’ escapes past Castiel's lips as he twists his fingers around the loose peg. 

_Turns out he was wrong_. 

"You okay, there, teach?" Jack asks, and a glance at him tells Castiel his mistake has been discovered, judging by the faint grin at the corner of Jack's lips. 

_Dammit,_ Castiel grumbles to himself ~~,~~ before walking over to the stand, holding his instrument up, and resting his chin upon the violin. He runs his bow against the strings, fingers gliding against the neck as he shuts his eyes, and continues playing. 

He knows now, where the string has been twanging, so if the pegs have been tuned right, the melody should flow with seamlessness and grace. Castiel hitches a breath as he nears the chorus. Something inside him wants this to be right, wants this to be fulfilling, and if it goes wrong, he's going to have to look deeper into it. 

_Now_ , he thinks, as he transitions into the chorus, an effortless, easy transition, and a smile graces his lips as he draws in a breath, letting his body go lax as he plays the song to completion. 

Silence hangs around him for a moment ~~,~~ as he regains his breath, eyes slipping open to gaze at a mundane spot on the wall. 

A pause, before the man from behind the wall speaks up again. "What'd I say.” There is a slight smugness to his voice, and no matter how hard Castiel tries to hide it, he can't help the grin spreading across his face. 

With a sigh, Castiel lets the violin down. "Oh, shut up." He rolls his eyes, and turns to Jack, whose eyes glint with humour. A grin, barely there, makes its way across Jack’s face. 

"I was right. Your neighbour was right. Sometimes, you just have to admit defeat." Jack says, a pleased tone to his voice as he holds his hands out. 

Castiel makes a face, sticking his tongue out at Jack ~~,~~ before handing him the violin with a scornful huff, smiling when he catches Jack laugh. "Now, from the top. No more distractions. No more bizarre interactions. I need your focus, the show is in a month, and that's only four weeks. Which means, in total, I have simply eight sessions with you until the show." 

Castiel grabs his mug of coffee, wincing at the flat taste of it for it's gone cold, yet he swallows it down to quench his momentary thirst and settles on the sofa, palms pressed together as he channels his absolute focus on Jack's practice. 

They have about thirty to thirty-five minutes left until practice ends, and during the course of the practice— where Jack, thankfully, plays the song quite well ~~,~~ with Castiel adding in tips and pointers from time to time— they don't hear again from the man behind the wall. There are no noises of shuffling, or thudding, as there have been for the past few days since the man moved in, and Castiel assumes he must have fallen into a much-needed slumber. 

About seven to eight performances later, Jack is playing the tune quite well. The tone, although a bit sharp to the ear, has improved quite a bit from the moment they began. Castiel makes a mental note to teach him about better body language in the next session, for they only have about ten minutes left now, and these ten minutes are simply for a cool down. Castiel believes excessive practice tends to warp one’s judgement. The larger the breaks one takes, the better one is able to listen to music with a different perspective each time. He follows the same principle for his own practice. 

It's about ten minutes to five-thirty p.m., and Castiel walks into the kitchen, rummaging through his fridge before grabbing some leftover pie from last night. He cuts up a slice and heats it in the microwave, then walks out into the living room ~~,~~ where Jack is lounging back on the sofa, surfing through his phone. 

Upon Castiel's arrival, Jack lights up, stuffing his phone into his pocket. Castiel hands him the plate before settling down across him. "So, how are things at home?" 

Jack makes an indignant noise around his mouthful of pie. "It's alright," he says, gulping it down. “I got a new video game last night, although I don’t play much of those.”

A smile tugs at Castiel's lips, and he lets his eyes wander down to Jack's soft, wide eyes.

"I haven't really played video games in my childhood, although we did have these little GameBoys and such.”

A silence ensues between them as Jack continues to down the slice of pie, gulping before he speaks up.

"So, what about you, Cas? You’re a little too free these days, no dates?" He asks, raising a suggestive eyebrow at Castiel. 

"Is this how you speak to your teacher?" Castiel feigns an offended gasp, leaning back into the soft cushions, as he crosses a leg over the other. 

"Oh please, just say you have a pathetically lonely love life and go." 

"Ouch, Jack, Sugar-coat it for me next time." 

Jack laughs at Castiel's comical expression, shrugging with a shameless grin on his face. "But, for real, Cas, you haven't dated anyone in years, and I've had a girlfriend _and_ a boyfriend in that while." 

"The real world isn't like high school. People have jobs, and bills and other things to attend to. Dating becomes more of a secondary need." 

Grabbing a glass of water, Jack shrugs before pressing it to his lips. "Just get Tinder. Or Grindr." 

"One, I don't understand your intense concern about my dating life. Two, how do you know about Grindr? Actually, don't answer that, I feel stupid for simply asking." 

The young boy laughs, watching as Castiel is caught up in his words. He reaches for his violin case with one hand, and with the other, his knapsack, which he slings around a shoulder, before pushing up to his feet. 

"So, I'll meet you Tuesday, teach." 

"Of course. Practice over the weekend, yes?" 

"Sure. Oh, and by the way, you should go check out the dude next door. Voice sounded hot." Jack winks, and Castiel glares at him, an amused glint in his eyes as he turns Jack around and nudges him towards the door. 

"Off you go, you little brat." 

Jack laughs, unfazed by their affectionate banter. He turns around, reaching up in a brief hug before pulling away. 

"Bye, I'll send you some videos in case there's something wrong." 

"Sure. Go straight home, okay? Message me if you need anything." Castiel smiles, claps Jack on the shoulder, and watches as the boy walks out the door with a smile, waving back at Castiel. 

The door slams shut behind Castiel, as he walks in, pondering over Jack's words. 

It's true. He hasn't had a single partner in over two years. As sad as that sounds, Castiel doesn't quite feel much about it. He likes the way he lives. He has a steady job as a night shift nurse at the New York Presbyterian Hospital, a part time job as a music instructor, a cosy, warm place to live in, shelves filled with unread books, and a good music system. What else does he need in life? 

He simply doesn't feel the need for a partner. Besides, if he ever got down to wanting one, he's sure he'd have to search far and wide to find someone who understands him. It's a typical excuse for people to say so, but Castiel means it. Vanity means nothing to him, what _he_ cares for, is his potential partner speaks, what they say, how they treat everybody around them. Needless to say, Castiel has high expectations from a partner. In essence, they need to be Castiel's friend before he would ever consider them as a lover. 

With a sigh, Castiel grabs his earphones and searches for his phone, which he's sure he put on the coffee table some time ago. Maybe he'll catch up on a podcast; he's been trying to find the time for one for a few days now, but somehow, work always interferes. He feels fresh, having woken up from his sleep not more than three hours ago, which keeps him on his toes all through the evening. 

Right as his eyes fall upon his phone on the kitchen counter, a knock, a single knock grabs his attention. On instinct, he turns to the door, only to realize the knock rose up from behind him, on the same wall as it did in the afternoon. 

With an uncertain coil in his gut, Castiel steps to the wall, leaning closer until his face is inches from the wallpaper. "Hello?" 

A moment later, a familiar husky voice speaks up. "Hey, uhm, it's me, uh, your neighbour. And uh... I just, I wanted to apologize for uhm, interrupting you a while back." 

_Oh? Apologize?_

"You don't need to apologize; it was my fault. I was so confident that I couldn't make a mistake, and well, I was wrong. And you helped me realize that, no matter how surprising my student and I found your, erm, bizarre medium of communication." 

A long pause, and Castiel wonders if the man has walked away. Before he can dismiss the thought, though, he hears the faintest of chuckles behind the wall. 

"Do you always speak like a textbook?" 

Castiel finds himself unable to answer the question, conflicted between wanting to retort, and not wanting to prove the man's jibe true. "Erm, I don't understand why you would think I speak like a— oh." 

A rich, exuberant laugh follows on the other side, prompting Castiel to roll his eyes, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. 

"Man, you're cute," the voice says. "By the way, I meant to say this a while ago, I love your solo. The violin one, yeah. I'm not really a violin person, hell, I don't even know the song you were playing, but uh, it was really good. Made me want to listen to it for hours." 

Castiel smiles, tucking his hands behind him as he rests his head against the wall, a warmth creeping across his cheeks, up to the tip of his nose at the words. "Thank you, that's very sweet of you to say." 

"You deserve it. Got me real invested in the song, actually. And trust me, as a classic rock person, that's about as close as I'm getting to classical." The words are languid, the initial rush of the tone seeping away as Castiel lets his eyes wander over the room, though focused only on the man's voice, and any sound he picks up from the other side. 

"Classic rock? As in?" 

"As in Zeppelin, Queen, y'know." 

"Ah, right. Led Zeppelin, I've heard a few songs myself." 

"Yeah? Which ones?" 

"I guess ‘Stairway to Heaven,’ the most popular one in my opinion. I've heard ‘Traveling Riverside Blues,’ ‘Ramble Off,’ or something similar." 

"Ramble On." 

"Huh?" 

"The song, it's ‘Ramble _On_ ’, not off." A soft chuckle rises up and Castiel feels himself go red upon having his error pointed out.

His eyes shut and he continues with a soft sigh, "Oh, my apologies. As I said, I'm not quite well-versed with rock music, although I admit, it really riles you up when you listen to it." 

"I know, right? Every time I put on some Zep, I can feel Page's guitar _literally_ thumping in my veins. They’re the best for a reason, am I right?" There is excitement thrumming in the man's voice, and Castiel smiles to himself. He doesn't really know if the man is right, but he's believes him anyway. 

"I suppose so." Another chuckle from the man, and Castiel's eyes slip open, as he feels prompted to ask, "-you moved in two days ago, didn't you?" 

"Yes. On Tuesday night." 

"Are you having trouble unpacking?" 

"No, not at all." 

"If you need anything, you can ask." 

"Of course." 

A silence creeps upon them, wherein Castiel simply rests his head against the wall, breathing in shallow, quick breaths. "Why do you have trouble sleeping?" he finds himself asking, out of the blue. Actually, it's a question that has been lingering in his mind for quite a while, though only now has he found enough confidence to ask it. 

The man sighs, and the soft, muffled creaking of a chair precedes his voice. "I've always had trouble sleeping." 

_Maybe he doesn't want to answer the question. Now it simply seems as if you're trying to pry into his life. Yup, no more questions_. 

"Oh, uh, my apologies if I'm prying, you just mentioned it earlier, and I thought it had something to do with me, since I play some music at night before I go to work." 

"Nah," There's an ease to the man's words, and Castiel heaves a sigh, letting his hands fall to his side as his eyes wander down to a bitten nail. "It's alright. You got a night shift, huh? Burning the midnight oil?" 

"I— yes. I work at the main NY Presbyterian Hospital, and I usually leave at around ten-thirty in the evening." 

"I guessed. Heard you leave last night. And heard that exceptional rendition of Backstreet Boys too." 

Castiel falters, eyes bulging out their sockets as his mouth drops open. He shifts his weight onto his other foot, struggling to find an appropriate answer ~~,~~ as his face heats up. 

"Uhm, I don't, I didn't—" Eventually, he sighs, his voice raising a notch as he squeaks, "Are the walls really that thin?" 

"Apparently, yes." 

With a deep breath, Castiel turns towards the wall, recalling his past experience with the woman who lived next to him. She worked as a theatre actress, and although Castiel had greeted her a few times, he'd never really heard much shuffling or thumping from her side of the wall. Maybe it had to do with the fact that she stayed out for long hours, only returning home at midnight, a time by which Castiel had already left for work. 

"I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't really know you could hear; I would've stopped-" 

"Eh, it's nothing. Would've sang a mean duet if I wasn't feeling low." ~~~~

Castiel grins, pressing the side of his head to the wall, eyes narrow as he attempts at envisioning a face to match the voice. He fails, and pushes those thoughts away when the man speaks up again.

"I, uh," His voice is softer now, so it's harder for Castiel to listen, and there is a certain hesitance to the man's voice. "It's my first time here in New York." 

"Oh?" 

"Yeah. I've always liked the buzz of a city, y'know. There's something so calming, yet something so lively about a city like this. But it is hard to make friends here. You're probably the only person I've spoken to except for the mover guy." 

Castiel feels his grin stretch wider ~~,~~ and he shuts his eyes, nodding along to the man's words, despite knowing there's no way the man can see him. "Well, you're probably the only person I've ever spoken to from this apartment, except for the woman who lived there before you. She was sweet, kept to herself. I think she landed a job at Broadway, which is why she moved out." 

"Broadway? Now that's something." 

"Life's unpredictable. I did attend one of her shows. She was quite a brilliant actress." 

"I don't remember the last time I watched a play. Or a musical." 

"You should some time. There's this play at the theatre downtown, about a queer man struggling with a new relationship and the ghosts of his past, and although the plot seems bleak, the monologues, the direction, it's all simply beautiful. You could watch it someday, if you ever want to watch a play. It's a truly moving story, if you ask me." 

"I bet." 

Somehow, judging by the hesitance in his tone, Castiel feels the man has more to say, more to express, and that there's something he finds hard to say out loud, but Castiel knows better than to point it out. Could it be the man went through something similar? Is that why he’s hesitant? Who knows. Silence engulfs them, much to Castiel's dismay, for he finds himself intrigued by the man behind the wall, one whose face he knows not, name he knows not, and yet, whose words alone capture Castiel's attention. 

"Feels nice to— hold on." Right as the man begins to speak, something seems to have interrupted him, and Castiel listens to him walk away, his footsteps retreating with every other step. 

With a dejected sigh, Castiel steps away, only to be drawn back by the noise of a knock on the wall behind him. 

"Hey, buddy, I'm so sorry, I need to take this call. Could you tell me more later? I hate to end our conversation like this, it's just, bank statements and what not." 

Castiel's smile falters, and he shrugs a dismissive shoulder. "Sure. If you want to, erm, talk, just knock. I'll probably be right here." 

Relief laces the man's words, and he breathes out a content sigh, before chuckling. "That rhymes, by the way. 'If you want to talk, just knock.' That should be a shrink's catchphrase." 

"It does fit quite appropriately," Castiel remarks as he steps away from the wall. 

A pause, and Castiel wonders if the man has moved away already. When he is still surrounded by silence ten minutes later, he gives up, walking into the kitchen to grab his cell phone. 

* * *

Around ten o'clock in the evening, when Castiel is on his fifth episode of a podcast about a truck driver trying to find her missing wife through a series of clues, and has downed one full bowl of fettuccine alfredo, he steps into his light blue scrubs. He begins to pack his backpack when a knock on the door— no, the wall— startles him. 

"Hey." A voice drifts along from behind the wall, only muffled in the slightest for today has been quite educational for Castiel, especially in terms of the thickness of his walls. Good to know if the building ever collapses, he'll be dead in ten minutes flat. 

"Hello,” he says. 

"Didn't hear you sing tonight." 

Castiel smiles, grabbing his reusable water bottle ~~,~~ and stuffing it inside his backpack. "I was busy listening to a podcast. I've been meaning to do so for weeks." 

"Oh? Which podcast are you listening to?" 

"Alice isn't Dead. It's a thriller, do you know it?" 

"No, I've never listened to podcasts before. Although my brother listens to quite a lot of them. Mostly about health ~~,~~ and lifestyle ~~,~~ and mythology, and all." 

"You have a brother?" 

"Yeah. Lives in LA." 

"Oh. What about you? What are you doing here in NYC? Anything specific you're here for?" 

Castiel asks, a slight smile at his lips. He zips his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder as he grabs the key to his car. 

"I'm... I don't know." 

"You don't know? Come on, there must be some reason. You don't just come to New York without a purpose. Or at least that's what I've heard." 

The man gives an exasperated sigh, and Castiel picks up traces of a troubled mind. Although he can't see the man, he can hear him, and that is indication enough for Castiel. "It's... It's complicated." 

_He's evading the question. You're prying too deep._

Castiel gulps and slips his feet into his sneakers, waiting for the man to follow up on his answer. Instead, he goes silent, and Castiel takes that as a cue to brush past the topic. "My apologies, I didn't mean to pry." 

"Eh, you weren't prying. I just... Can I be honest?" 

_Oh. Uhm._

"Yes, please." 

"I hate small talk. I don't know where this conversation is going." 

A relieved sigh escapes past Castiel's lips ~~,~~ and he falls back against the wall. "Oh, thank the Lord. I couldn't agree more. I mean, small talk is great, to an extent, because it's an effective icebreaker, but once you're past the basics? Who cares? I don't know if it's just me, but unless the conversation holds some sort of substance, I don't think I can keep myself engrossed." 

"Couldn't have said it better," the man chuckles, and Castiel smiles at the sound, prompted to recall a fitting quote about their situation. 

"You know, this reminds me of a quote, from one of my favourite poets, _'conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative.'_ It's by—" 

"Oscar Wilde." 

Castiel's mouth drops open, his eyes narrowed for a moment. He stands, awestruck, before a strange, bemused smile tugs at his lips. "How'd you know that?" 

"I read," says the man, a glint of satisfaction in his voice.

Castiel turns to the wall, unable to find the right words to express his... his... surprise? He's not quite surprised by the man saying he reads. A lot of people are avid readers. He finds himself struck by the ease with which the man finishes his sentence, the certainty in his voice. "I... So do I... And well, not to digress from what you said, but it's true. I'd prefer thoughtful conversations over idle chat any day." 

"Man, you don't know how good it feels to hear that," the man says, prompting Castiel to laugh, and the sound is loud enough to drift across. 

A pause. 

"I like your laugh,” says the voice, and Castiel falters, a warmth washing over him as he tucks his hands behind his back ~~,~~ with a soft grin. 

"I like your voice." 

"Yours is better." 

A silence lingers between them for a moment, and Castiel feels an unusual affection pool inside him. But it's not affection. He supposes it's a certain familiarity that bonds both men, the feeling of being understood, the feeling of being seen. 

"So, you off to work?" the man asks, and Castiel nods, more on instinct than anything else. 

"Yes. I—." As much as Castiel would love to spend more time speaking to the man, getting to know him, understand him, laugh with him, he has work to attend to. "I have to leave now. My shift starts at eleven." 

"When will you be back?" 

"Around seven in the morning." 

A pause, before the man speaks up. "Will you knock?" 

There's underlying desperation to the man's voice, one that curls something warm inside Castiel, and he lets his head fall against the wall. "Maybe tomorrow afternoon? When I wake up?" 

He doubts the man could have heard him, especially with how soft his voice was, but his doubts dissipate the moment he hears a soft _thank you_ from across the wall. 

The man behind the wall. Someone he's never met before, someone he doesn't know, someone whose only identity is his voice—mand yet, there's something simmering between them, a certain pull that Castiel finds himself drawn by. 

"Bye—" A name. He doesn't have a name. 

Castiel waits, expecting the man to fill in the gap by responding with his name, but instead, he is met with silence. So, with a soft exhale, he grabs his backpack and walks out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

_No riches from his scanty store_

_My lover could impart;_

_He gave a boon I valued more —_

_He gave me all his heart!_

_— A Song, Helen Maria Williams._

* * *

Ink flows through the pen in Dean’s hand as he writes, unbothered about the smudges or the stains on the side of his palm for all he cares about in this very moment is penning the words _—_ no, the memories, down. Dr.Mosely had been very specific with the instructions:

_‘Write each moment. Every time you think of the memory, write it down. Allow it to smudge. Allow it to stain. Allow the memory to live, because only when it comes alive in the real world, will you be able to face it in the real world. You are not your memories, Dean. You are made up of so much more. You’re made of bravery and courage, selflessness, righteousness. You are not what happened to you. You are, and will always be, stronger.’_

Eyes shut, with unshed tears threatening to trickle down, Dean reminds himself to stop crying. 

Men don’t cry. Men don’t cry. Men don’t—

A sob rips through his throat, and he bites down on the back of his palm to refrain the cry that slips past his lips, instead muffled by the hand at his mouth. The sound of teardrops hitting the paper with a pop captures his attention, and he looks down at the slip of paper, smudged with ink and tears— a poetic moment, he thinks, if it weren’t for the urge to tear the paper apart and burn it. The pen falls from his hand, and so does another tear. He swallows down another sob, the wet sound of it echoing through the room, as he reads out his words from the very start. 

_‘It’s 0500 hours, we’re hiding behind a sand dune. There isn’t blood on our hands, but there is about to be. We wait. Three, two, one. The bomb explodes. The early morning sky, pink and orange, has gone gray with the smoke in the air. Somewhere between the smoke, we see red as well. Cries. Several of them. I remember seeing a young boy on the bus; I remember him gazing out the window with his lips smeared with the juices from dates. I remember thinking, mourning, the life of a boy I only ever glimpsed. I remember shedding a tear for a boy whose only thought before he… before he did what no young child should ever have to, must have been about the vast, wondrous skies. I remember thinking_ — _what am I doing here? How could I do this? What gives me the right to steal someone’s life away from them? How could someone possibly find this gratifying? But I know what I did_ _._ _I killed a child.’_

Dean nudges the chair away from the table and pushes himself to his feet as he scours through one of his bags for a lighter. He grabs the slip of paper and his old, yellow lighter, and walks to the kitchen. The rim of his eyes burns with every falling teardrop, and he folds the paper in half, holds up an edge to the sink, and flicks his thumb over the lighter. He watches as the spark lights up and then he holds the flame to the paper. 

A second passes before the paper catches aflame, and Dean watches, with less astonishment but much more grief, as the edges turn brown, black and finally grey in the sink. When the flame nears his thumb, a disturbing, intrusive thought causes him to wonder what would happen if he simply let his finger burn, but his conscious mind acts on instinct, prompting him to drop the charring paper into the sink. 

A glance at the clock in his living room shows him the time is half past three, and he turns his attention back to the ash slipping down the drain in his kitchen sink. Stepping away, he walks to his fridge, pulling the door open and leaning down with disinterest. Even before the door opens, he knows the fridge is almost empty. He hasn't had the time to shop for groceries since he moved here a few days ago. But it doesn't bother him as a problem, for Dean recalls surviving on less than nothing in the torrid streets of Kabul. Absently, he grabs a box of leftover Chinese takeout from the night before, and grabs a paper fork for himself before sticking the box in the microwave. 

With time to spare and nothing to wonder about, distant memories flow through his mind.

A month. It's been a single month since John passed away. There was nothing shocking about it, not in the least. It was cancer, for crying out loud. Stage three pancreatic cancer—of course they knew what would follow soon. The last few months, as much as Dean hates to admit it, had been strained. He abided to every whim and fancy of his father back in Lawrence. He cared for him for as long as one can for someone as stubborn as John Winchester. But his mind had been at turmoil, doubts itching within him every second of every day, weeks and weeks of sleepless nights, hours and hours of prolonged silences, and if by chance sleep ever did lull him away, the thunderous explosions in his memories would shake him back to consciousness. 

It has been a year since he returned from his active duty overseas. Being a Marine Corp, the reputation, the respect, the treatment? It's all aces. People love you. They respect you. But the mental toll of it is something a soldier can only share with another soldier. Even if you're not in the midst of a war, the conditions you find yourself in during duty are much alike. And Dean? He’s lived through fifteen years of it. Fifteen years of service. Dean recalls a young, twenty-one-year-old boy clad for the first time in the signature tan combat uniform. For the world, it was the mark of a soldier, for Dean, the crux of his existence. 

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Dean dismisses his thoughts and turns to the microwave, grabbing the warm box of takeout and shutting the microwave door with his shoulder. He makes his way into the living room, where the central air conditioning has broken down, and grabs a towel to wipe some sweat off his bare chest. The man Dean had called last night had said he'd be here by four at the latest. One of the women in the apartment had lent him the number, so he didn't quite know much about the man's credentials. But who cares? He's a fricking electrician and Dean needs his air conditioning fixed. 

Right as Dean is grabbing the unopened bundle of newspapers on the coffee table, a knock draws his attention to the wall. Before he knows it, a grin has crept to the corners of his lips, and he changes course, walking over to the wall he shares with the man next door. He pulls up a chair and settles down, knocking once against the plaster to signal his arrival. 

"Mornin' sunshine." 

The man across the wall chuckles, and Dean hears a slight thump. Must be the man sitting down. 

"Good afternoon,” the man says, “-did you sleep well last night?" 

"I don't know. Does three hours of sleep count as well-rested?" 

"Obviously not. You need at least seven hours, or six at the very least, to let your body function. That is unless you’re a superhero, in which case I'm sure you don't." 

"Eh, some people would call me a superhero." 

"Oh?" 

"Yeah." 

"Why? What is it you do?" 

Dean scoffs. "Used to be in the Marine Corps for a while. Got off active duty last year." 

"Oh, you were a Marine? You don't sound that old. " 

The curiosity in the man's voice draws a hearty laugh from Dean, who continues to stuff his face with noodles. 

"Ah, because I'm not. Trust me, I ain't even touched forty yet." 

"Shut up,” The man gasps. 

Dean laughs at the disbelief in the man's voice. "I swear." He attempts to imagine a face to match the voice. Brown eyes, perhaps? A crooked nose? No, the voice sounds quite young. Features aside, Dean does imagine soft, pale skin, devoid of wrinkles or lines. 

"Wait, you're not even forty? I'm sorry, you see, your voice sounds quite mature." 

"I get that a lot. It's alright. We're cool." 

"So how old are you?" The man asks, and Dean considers lying. _Eh, what does it matter_. 

"I'm thirty-six,” he says. “-you?" 

"Twenty-eight." 

"Damn, you're young." 

"It's just eight years." 

"Eight years? Buddy, I was in boot camp when you were in high school learning 'bout cooties or whatever." 

A loud, exaggerated sigh drifts across the wall, and Dean grins, scooping more noodles into his mouth. 

"Fine, whatever,” the man on the other side of the wall says. “But hold on, you enlisted at twenty-one? No offense, but why would you do something like that at such a tender age?" 

Dean quirks his bottom lip. The answer to the man's question is quite transparent. 

"My father was in the Corps. Mom was a medical officer. I'm the eldest son, so obviously they wanted me to join. And my dad was my inspiration, my biggest mentor, and I wanted to follow his footsteps, so I enlisted as soon as possible. My brother, however, didn't give a single shit about serving the country on the borders _or_ _whatever_. Although he did take up law. One of L.A.'s most sought after lawyers, my brother." 

"You sound really proud of him.”

It isn't something he'd usually say out loud, but then again, it's not as if the man will remember. 

"Well I mean, he is my brother," A pause, “But I'm also kind of jealous of him. Maybe not him as a person, but just, of the fact that he has everything sorted out, y'know." 

"I guess I do. Try being the youngest, gay sibling in conservative Christian family. It's as if everyone around me, everyone except me, has their life sorted. My eldest brother, he's the vice-president of some I.T company. Wife, two kids. He's got it all. My elder sister is a paediatrician. An accountant husband, a little kid- she's set in life. And then there's me, trying to make ends meet with my salary, not to mention my student loans, and then there's the rent, the commute, and a love life? I don't even know what that is. I tried Grindr once. Don't think I've seen so many shirtless men at once in my life before. And not a singlemeaningful conversation. Bottom line, everything is shit." 

"Ho, ho, Mr.Textbook, someone is hella’ salty today." 

Dean laughs, reaching down to keep the box of takeout away. 

"Sorry, it's just... I had an argument with my parents this morning. I was tired, it was a hectic shift, I was sleepy, and my mom was being her usual, nagging self." 

Must be nice, having a mother who calls in to check on you. Ever since his own mother passed a few years ago, things haven't been the same for Dean. And yet, even now, he recalls his mother: a warrior on the field, but a young, beautiful woman at home. He remembers her in her frilly little sundresses and her matching broad headbands, how she'd bake pie each Sunday, and how she'd play with Dean at the park when he was young. 

"You shouldn't be so hard on them,” he says. “I mean, it's not my place to speak, not at all, but take it from someone who's lost both parents in the course of over five years." 

Silence meets Dean's ears, and he knows he did cross a line. After all, the fact that his neighbour is sharing this with him doesn't give him the right to preach to him. 

"I'm sorry,” he quickly amends. “I didn't mean to cross a line, that was really rude of me—" 

"I'll call her later. Not now, I want things to simmer down." 

Dean smiles. 

"That's good." 

"May I ask you something?" 

"You just did." 

A groan, and then, the man speaks up again. 

"How did they, your parents, how did they—" 

"Die? Mom from a tumour. Dad from cancer." 

It sounds so brash, so meaningless, when he says it out as such. Dean's head falls back against the wall as he heaves a sigh. 

"You must miss them a lot." 

Dean's eyes slip shut. There's an urge rising up in his throat, to let out a sob he's been holding back for long, one he's been trying to suppress all this while. 

"There was this picture frame in our house, y'know," He swallows, “-on the shelf above the fireplace. Me, Sam, mom and dad. My mom was beautiful. Blonde hair that framed her face so perfectly. Beautiful eyes, a big, wide smile when she laughed. You know, it was one of those rare pictures where my dad was smiling wide and open. I remember very clearly the moment we took it. Dad just came home for the first time in three years. He was in his uniform. He got me this little wooden toy he found at a local shop in Iraq. And I was about eight, Sam was four, and I was thinking, I don't think I'll ever be this happy again. My mother asked some stranger at the airport to click it for us." 

A beat passes before Dean continues, a reminiscent tone to his words. 

"The best part about that picture was that every Christmas, my brother and I would change the picture to one of the Beatles, and we’d change it back every New Year’s Eve. We used to think we were so slick, but I'm pretty sure mom knew." 

A tear rolls down Dean's face. Jesus, when did he start crying so much? Must be the fifteen years he didn't allow himself to. Besides, something about the man behind him tells Dean he's not being judged, as if the man might even understand what Dean is saying, _feeling_ , in that moment. 

"Your parents must be extremely happy together in heaven, Mister, mister— I don't know your name." 

"It's better that way, don't you think?" 

It's more of a statement, rather a question, when Dean says it the way he does. 

"I guess I'll have to agree with that. The less I know you, the more open I feel. Is it weird to say that?" 

"At this point? After I _literally_ cried in front of you? Probably not." 

A rich, thick laughter reaches Dean's ear, and at once, his heart quickens. Must be a blessing for anyone to hear this man's laughter each morning. 

"Well, what do I call you then?" the man asks. 

"I don't know. I call you Mr. Textbook." 

"Which I despise, by the way." 

Mischief laces the man's word and Dean finds himself grinning. 

"Alright then, uhm," A name, he needs a name for his neighbour— but not his real name, no, a pet name, something that distinguishes him from the others. “Well, what's your best feature?" 

"What?" 

"Like your eyes, your nose, must be something people like, right?" 

"Oh, I see you've assumed quite easily of my attractiveness." 

"’Course I have. Guy with voice like yours should have men lying at his feet." 

"Okay, that's too much." 

"A little," Dean admits with a snort, "Alright, uhm, what colour are your eyes?" 

"My eyes?" The man asks, as if in awe of Dean's question. 

"Yeah." 

"Well, they're blue." 

"It’s settled then. I'll just call you Blue." 

"What about yours?" 

"Green." 

"Green? I've never seen anyone with green eyes before." 

"Don't think you will for a long time, sweetheart," Dean scoffs as he rests his head back against the wall. 

"Oh? Are you saying that as people who live right next door, we'll never once see each other?" 

"If we put our minds to it, nope." 

Blue laughs from the other end, and Dean feels himself smile at the sound of his laughter. 

"Alright then," Blue sighs, "-Mr. Green, why do you think it's better if we don't see each other?" 

"Because somehow I feel at ease knowing I’m never going to see you. Makes talking more comfortable, yeah?" 

A dumbfounded silence fills the air, and Dean grins smug at his argument, until the sound of a defeated sigh makes its way across. 

"You make a solid point. But then how am I to match a face to this enticing voice of yours?" 

"Imagination, sugar, imagination." 

"Oh, by the way," Blue starts, "-I have been meaning to ask. Do you always call the people you talk to ‘ _sweetheart’_?" 

"Sometimes. It's more of an involuntary thing." 

"I figured." 

A silence lulls in the air and Dean fears the conversation will end sooner than he'd like it to. This guy, Blue, he sounds cool. Like a guy you could share a couple beers with, sit with under the stars, and talk about life, and the universe. 

In a desperate attempt to save the conversation from falling apart, Dean recalls a few notable moments from their conversation the night before. 

"So, I didn't hear your student today?" 

"Oh, I keep my classes on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and the weekends. I have a few children coming in tomorrow. They're cute. think the oldest is eight and the rest are six and seven." 

There's a distinct affection in Blue's voice, a fondness to his words as he speaks. 

"Man, I'm going to have to wear earplugs tomorrow, aren't I?" 

Blue laughs, loud and real, and Dean feels a sliver of pride in his chest at making the man laugh. 

"Oh god, yes. I think everyone in a radius of ten metres is going to have to wear some heavy-duty ear plugs— unless they want to hear a bunch of kids play the violin as brashly as possible." 

Dean pauses, fiddling with the paper fork in his hands, one he was supposed to throw away a long while ago. 

"Well, at least they get a star for effort, right? I mean, if I ever had a child, you bet your ass he's listening to Zeppelin or Black Sabbath. Obviously at a lower volume than I do, but the kid's going to need some personality." 

Blue laughs and for a moment, Dean envisages round, baby blue eyes, twinkling with mirth as they stare up at him. 

"Oh, I know. " The man enunciates his words with such drama, it makes Dean snort, "If I ever have a child, maybe ten years from now, I'll make sure I raise it in a world with music. Music means a lot to me, Mr.Green, I can't tell you how much. If there's anything I'm seriously thankful for, it's for the fact that my parents enrolled me in piano lessons one summer. Since then, music has become an integral part of me. I can't go a day without playing my instruments." 

"I can tell." A gentle smile lifts the corners of Dean's lips. 

"And it's not just that," Blue sighs, “It's my own personal journal. If I'm sad, my music is sad, if I'm happy, my music is happy. Like a thirteen-year old girl with a diary—but in my case, it's my music." 

"Wait, so how many instruments do you play?" 

_Did Blue mention a piano a few minutes ago?_ Dean already knows he plays the violin. 

"I play about six instruments in total. The piano, the violin, the guitar, a bit of flute, and well, different variations of the same instruments. Like ukuleles, cellos, and all." 

Now this piques Dean's curiosity. How does someone so skilled at numerous instruments, a literal musical virtuoso, end up working as a night-shift nurse at a city hospital? 

"Hold on a second,” he says. “Why didn't you make a career out of your music? Why be a nurse? It's honestly more confusing than me joining the Corps." 

A beat passes between them, and Dean wonders if Blue has walked away, but before he can dismiss the thought, the man speaks. 

"My parents didn't approve, Mr. Green. They wanted me to have a stable job and a big, fat family, one who'd visit them every Christmas and Thanksgiving. But I couldn't give them that. So, I decided to pursue nursing and here I am. It's a good profession. Pays well. The people are nice. I know what I'm doing." 

Dean purses his lips and breaks a tine off his paper fork. 

"Don't you ever feel like pursuing your art? Not everyone can do that, but Blue, you're really special. Haven't you tried joining different orchestras or, I don't know, whatever thingies those musicians join? I mean, the pay wouldn't be as good, but at the end of the day, you'll be doing something you love, right?" 

He doesn't know why he senses a meek smile at Blue's lips, but the image does seem quite pleasing. 

"I wish it were that easy." 

"Have you tried? You gotta’ try harder." 

"What makes you think I haven't?" 

"I— I don't know. I'm sorry." 

"Don't be." 

Another silence ensues. _It'll pass over in a moment_ , Dean muses, but to his astonishment, it doesn't. _Has Blue left?_ he wonders. _Did I come off too rude?_ Perhaps he did. There he goes again. Preaching to people. 

"I like the silence," Blue says then.

"Yeah?" 

"Mhm. What do you think?" 

"I think it's your way of telling me I speak too much." 

Blue laughs. There it is, that sound again, drawing Dean closer to a man he's never seen. Funny how a single conversation causes your mind to run wild with imagination. 

"Oh, of course not. I don't like talking much," There's a pause. “But I have enjoyed talking to you." 

"Well, that's a relief, but to answer your question, I don't like silences." 

"Huh? Why not?" 

Dean shuts his eyes, and lets his head fall back against the wall, spreading his legs out as he slumps lower on the chair. 

"Because chatter keeps me alive. Silence is an omen. It's the three seconds before a bomb explodes. It's the ghosts of our victims' cries. A reminder of the ones we killed, of the ones we silenced, of the ones we couldn't save.” An uneasiness rises in Dean's throat, voice quivering as he speaks, "-I hate silences, Blue, because when I'm up every night and I can't sleep, it's the only thing I can hear. _And I hate it_.”

"You... You didn't like it, did you? The Corps?" 

"I did. Up until we were told to bomb buses filled with supposed terrorists, or raid houses of men _presumed_ to possess illegal arms." 

A pause, then Blue speaks.

"I won't say you did what you had to do, because you made a choice, Mr.Green, the consequences of which you must have known. All I can say is that we all do bad things. But life goes on, and though we can't ask for forgiveness, we can always choose to learn and grow." 

Dean is stunned. 

To say the least. 

It's not what he expected to hear. 

Blue's words confound Dean, and he knits his eyebrows together. In that moment, he realises something. All these months, when he shared his turmoil with some of his close friends or even his therapist, he was answered with sympathy. It would always be a ‘ _you did what you had to’_ or a _‘life isn't fair’_ or even a _‘you did it for your country’._ In retrospect, every past response has always been to blame the circumstances. But when Blue puts it this way—

"I'm sorry, was that too rude?” Blue asks. “I'm really sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"You know, all this time, people kept blaming the circumstances I was in. They blamed my seniors, they blamed the times, they blamed everyone but me, trying not to burden me with their opinions. Never once did I expect a stranger to put me on the spot and tell me, maybe not to my face, but nevertheless, about the blame being my own." 

"I didn’t mean to hurt you, Mr.Green.”

“And you haven’t, _Blue._ It’s simply the ease at which we speak that amazes me.”

“You'd be surprised at how a single conversation can change you for good,” Blue says.

Dean swallows. 

Blue's words are like a sip of hot chocolate on a cold, grey winter's night. 

Refreshing. Soothing. Necessary. 

"I like talking to you,” Dean says. “Somehow speaking to a stranger is far more therapeutic than it would seem to be." 

Blue laughs and the sound thrums under Dean's skin, igniting every fibre of every nerve. A beat passes, filled with nothing but quiet, and Dean takes the moment to allow his eyes to wander outside. From up here, the view isn't the best for there is always a sky-scraper blocking the sun, but Dean can see a few sparrows, their tiny brown wings fluttering as they chirp and fly about a tree from branch to branch. 

"You know, this reminds me of a quote actually," Blue says. His voice has gone higher with enthusiasm, something Dean finds rather endearing, " _Men always talk about the most important things to perfect strangers._ It's by—" 

"Chesterton. G. K. Chesterton." 

Silence follows Dean’s words, before he hears Blue gasp, quite audibly at that, and then, in the sincerest, most wonder-struck voice Dean has heard, tone filled with childish curiosity, Blue asks, "How do you do that?" 

"Do what?" 

"Know what I'm saying. Finish my quote." 

"I told you, Blue," Dean grins, proud of himself for rendering the young man speechless, "-I read." 

"No, but out of the billions of quotes and phrases in the world, how do you always know the one _I'm_ saying?" 

"I don't know," Dean muses. “-Maybe we're both men of refined tastes." 

A soft laugh reaches across and Dean grins, perplexed at how the man seems to draw him in. 

_I can't wait for the day I meet Blue. But somehow, I never want to meet Blue_. 

"Maybe,” Blue says. “So, how are you?" 

"Small talk?" 

"I'm being a little unimaginative, aren't I?" 

Dean laughs at the reference, tilting his neck aside to massage a crick away. 

"With a voice like that, you could say anything you want Blue, I wouldn't care." 

A silence, before a soft, meek voice speaks up. 

"Thank you." 

"Anytime," Dean says, glancing at the clock. "-Man, the electrician was supposed to be here at four. It's literally half past five right now." 

"Oh, him? He's always late. He'll probably be there by six. What's wrong?" 

Dean gives an indignant groan. "The air conditioning, it doesn't work. I've been sweating all day." 

"Oh, you could come over if you—" Blue starts, only to stop himself. “-Nope, our bizarre agreement, right, no seeing each other. Mr.Green, that doesn't even make any sense." 

"Eh, trust me, you do not want to see my face." 

"Why not? My student thinks you sound _attractive_." 

Dean laughs, but his fingers reach up to his face. Mindlessly, he traces his thumb down the scar that runs down from the top of his right eyebrow to the bottom of his left cheek. The raised skin doesn't hurt any longer, but the touch of his thumb to the scar reminds him of a time he despised looking at his face. A constant reminder of one of Dean's deadliest combat experiences. 

"I'm not attractive,” he says. “Although I used to be a real charmer." 

"What?" Blue chuckles, and Dean scoffs. 

"Trust me, Blue." 

"What? Why?" 

Dean slumps back down onto the chair, the wooden legs of it crashing back against the wall and causing him to stumble slightly. 

"Eh, I don't want to talk about it." 

"O-oh alright," Blue says, his voice dejected.

Dean sighs. "Maybe I'll tell you someday in the future." 

"Of course." There's a pause before Blue speaks, but this time his voice is accompanied by soft thudding of the floorboards, and Dean supposes he's shuffling around."-Green, my phone's ringing. Do you mind if I knock later? Maybe around eight, when I'm having dinner?" 

"Sure, why not, I'm right here. Got nothing to do." 

A soft patter of footsteps follows Dean's words. Well, Blue’s gone now. _Alright. But he'll knock later, right?_ At least Dean hopes so. 

Dean pushes himself to stand, but right as he's shifting the chair, a soft thump on the wall draws his attention and he hears Blue say, in the softest voice, "I won't ditch you, promise." 

Now that tugs a wide smile at Dean's face, and heat rises in his cheeks, although he wouldn't admit it. 

Somehow, Dean likes this man. Dean doesn't know much about him, but he likes him. And hey, he can work with that. 

As he moves about his living room, his eyes fall upon a book in one of his boxes and he leans down to pull it out. It's ‘ _Felicity’_ , one of Mary Oliver's poem collections. For a fleeting second, a thought occurs to him. 

What if he... No. No, that would be too forward. 

_But…?_

_No._

With a sigh, he flings the book onto the couch a few feet away, and continues to walk over to the kitchen. Right as he's entering it however, the thought nags at him again. 

_Blue does seem quite open to new conversations_. And he hates small talk. Dean finds himself liking his unique conversations with Blue. Maybe it’s worth a shot.

_Here goes nothing_ , Dean thinks, and grabs a slip of paper from the journal he was writing in a few hours ago. He grabs his pen, and walks over to grab the book he flung onto the couch. He pulls out a chair to seat himself down at his desk. He lays the paper down flat, and holds the pen to the front as he begins to write. 

_‘Dear Blue_.’ 


	3. Chapter 3

_My darling,_ _all I want_

_is to chase beautiful dreams_ _with you._

_— Alexandra_ _Vasiliu._

* * *

"I hope you enjoyed today." Castiel smiles as he regards the young girl, his student, standing below him, her blonde curls falling against her shoulders and framing her face as she grips her pink, princess-themed backpack to her chest. 

"Mr. Novak, you've been so helpful," The girl’s mother says, smiling at Castiel with a glint of respect in her eyes.

“Oh please, it’s nothing. Your daughter is lovely, always so curious when we’re speaking.” Castiel watches as his student smiles, and teeters on the threshold of his house, shrinking behind her mother with a shy smile. 

"Buh-bye teacher," she says, and Castiel grins. 

"Bye sweetheart," he says, and pushes himself up to meet her mother's eyes. 

"I'll see you next week, ma'am. Have a nice day."

Her mother nods, returning the pleasantry before turning away, the girl’s tiny hand in her own. Right as she's turning away, however, she pauses, and turns back to Castiel. "Mr. Novak?" 

"Yes?" 

"There's a package. At your door. Thought I'd point it out." 

Castiel follows her eyes down to the floor where a bundle sits outside his door. It appears to be a box, or a book wrapped in a blue cloth. Castiel leans down to pick it up. He doesn't recall ordering anything from the internet, and even if he did, why would it come wrapped in a cloth? 

"Oh, thanks, I'll take that,” he says, and waits until his student and her mother have walked away before shutting his door. 

The door locks with a click, and Castiel leans back against the rosewood frame, staring down at the package in his hands. Again, a thought pops up in his mind, about who could have sent him something like this? He barely talks to anybody in the apartment, except for well, his neighbour, who he also only speaks to through a wall. Thoughts racing, he sets the package down on his coffee table and right as he does, a slip of paper falls from the bundle, at once drawing Castiel's attention to it. 

Around him, soft, mellow, late morning rays filter in through the blinds of Castiel's living roomand he bends down to swipe the slip of paper into his fingers. He sets the package aside and unfolds the note to reveal slightly botched handwriting. 

‘ _Dear Blue,’_

Wait a moment. Blue? Does that mean...? Does that mean Mr.Green sent this package?

_‘So, erm, I’m not good at this whole writing spiel, but I just wanted to give you a book I thought you’d like. It’s one of my favourites, and I thought well, maybe if you read it someday, we’d have something to talk about. Talking to you this past week has been so freaking fun, man, I can’t imagine not speaking to you again. It’s like I want to speak to you every minute of every hour. Hope you like this, and erm, yeah._

_Yours truly, I guess,_

_Green_.’ 

With every passing word, a smile grows on Castiel's lips. When he finishes reading, he folds the note with as much caution as he can and sets it down on the coffee table before reaching for the package. The letter made it clear Mr.Green has sent him a book; now the question eating away at Castiel— which book is it? 

The bundle is wrapped with careful deliberation, so Castiel uses utmost care to unwrap it. The book is light in his lap, not too hefty, and a slight expanse of grey meets Castiel's eyes. He hitches a silent breath and shuts his eyes with childlike anticipation before laying the bare book on his lap, devoid of all packing. 

He cracks an eye open, and in his lap, a tranquil grey book.: 

_‘Felicity’_ by Mary Oliver. 

Castiel gasps. 

Mary Oliver? He recalls reading a few of her poems on the internet, and he has been meaning to buy one of her collections for ages, and this? This is precisely what he needed. A wide grin spreads across his face as he flips the paperback open, a peculiar urge inside him compelling him to hold the book up to his face and fill his lungs with the scent of the used book; the scent of the browning pages.

He flips across the index, through the thin pages, before ending up on a random page in the book. A warmth swells in his chest as his eyes drift along the inked words, some of which have faded in a few places. He grazes his thumb along the edges of the page, before scrambling over to the wall he shares with Mr.Green. 

He knocks, loud and resounding, the enthusiasm under his skin thrumming as he heaves a breath, bouncing his leg against the wall as his eyes roam the expanse of the accent wallpaper. A few minutes later, the sound of shuffling, accompanied by slight thuds from across the wall float over and a soft, joyous voice greets him. 

"Blue." 

"Your book. I got it. I love it." 

"No ‘ _hey, hi, how are you’_?" Green laughs, and Castiel's smile widens. 

He pulls a chair to the wall and settles down. 

"I've been meaning to buy Mary Oliver's collections. I've heard they're one of the world's best." 

"That they are." 

"I read a poem already, I think I like it." 

"Oh? Which one?" Green asks, and Castiel gives a considerate hum. 

"It's called— uhm, give me a moment." 

Castiel touches his finger to his tongue before flipping through the corners of the pages until he lands on the one he read a few minutes ago. 

"Right, it's uhm, it's called ‘ _A Voice from I Don't Know Where’_." 

Green hums, his husky, sleep-soaked voice churning withing Castiel's guts. 

"Read it out for me, sweetheart." 

A soft shudder wracks Castiel's body, and he bites down on his lips to chastise himself. Green's voice is... _captivating_ , to say the least. It's a firm, convicted voice, reaching deep into the depth of Castiel’s flesh. The deep, smooth baritone of his voice causes Castiel to shift on the seat and squeeze his thighs together. 

"Really?" he asks, hesitant. 

"Yes." 

With a shaky breath, Castiel reads the first verse. 

" _It seems you love this world very much._

_'Yes,' I said. 'This beautiful world.'_

_And you don’t mind the mind, that keeps you busy all the time with its dark and bright wonderings?_ " 

"Mmhmm. Go on," comes the hoarse reply. 

" _No, I’m quite used to it. Busy, busy,_

_all the time."_

_And you don’t mind living with those questions,_

_I mean the hard ones, that no one can answer?_

_'Actually, they’re the most interesting._ " 

When the silence persists, Castiel continues. 

" _And you have a person in your life whose hand you like to hold?_

_'Yes, I do.'_

_It must surely, then, be very happy down there in your heart._

_'Yes,' I said. 'It is._ " 

A sigh drifts over from across the wall, before Castiel hears a soft chuckle. 

"Ah, Blue, I can't get enough of your voice. It's becoming a vice for me. Your voice is my vice." Green laughs again ~~,~~ and Castiel rolls his eyes, pressing the book shut as he leans back against the wall. 

"Lame." 

"Bold coming from a guy with no sense of humour." 

"I do have a sense of humour, you simply don't understand it." 

"Right," Green scoffs. "Is it the _'what did the father tomato say to the baby tomato who was laggin' behind'_ kind of humour?" 

Castiel knits his eyebrows together, head tipping to the side as he flutters his eyes open, lips quirked in a pout. 

"What _did_ he say?" 

"Jesus, Blue." 

"Well, I'm curious now." 

A pause, and Castiel feels the hesitation in Green's voice. And then comes from across the wall, in the quietest, softest voice—

"Ketchup." 

"Ketchup?" 

"It's wordplay. For catch up." 

As if it clicks within Castiel's mind, he laughs, and his head falls back against the wall. 

"That _is_ quite funny, Mr.Green, what makes you think it isn't?" 

He hears a groan at the other end. 

"So, you are one of those people." 

"I don't understand what's so embarrassing about finding a joke funny." 

"There's nothing—," Green sighs, but Castiel senses mischief lacing his words. "-Ah, you're cute, Blue." 

Castiel shrugs and lets the words hang in the air. He glances down at the book and blows out a soft puff of air, resting his head against his hand. 

"Mr.Green?" 

"Yes, Blue?" 

"Why did you send me the book?" 

"Thought I made it clear with the note." 

"Oh, no," Castiel purses his lips. “-I mean, is there something else?" 

"Eh, I guess. I wanted to leave something for you to remember me by. It's too early to say that at this point, but it's inevitable, that's for sure." 

"Remember you by? But you're right here?" 

A laugh slips past Castiel's lips for he finds the statement rather silly. 

"Oh, not for long. I'm moving out, three months from now." 

_Wait. What?_

Castiel stiffens on the chair, wondering if he has heard Green right. 

"You're, you're moving out? When? Why?" 

A pause ensues, before Green speaks up from the other end, "Remember when I said my father passed away a month ago?" 

"My condolences, and yes, I do remember you speaking of your parents." 

"He's got a house, my childhood home, back in Lawrence, Kansas, where I grew up. Since Mom isn't here either and he never drew up a will, legally the house is mine. I thought I'd come here for a few months first, y'know, to detach myself from there. To detach myself from the memories, good and bad, to detach myself from the house. It's up for renovation. Once it's done, I'll be moving back in." 

That makes sense. Dean moving to New York to detach himself from the memories back home, now it makes sense— This must be why he couldn’t answer Castiel the day the first spoke, because he wouldn’t have wanted to be revisited by those memories. 

"Oh. Well alright. I guess I'll take the liberty of saying I'll miss you when you leave." 

"But life goes on, Blue." 

"That it does." 

Somehow, the knowledge of Green's forthcoming departure twists a chord inside Castiel's heart. Sure, he's only known the man for three days, and yes, he's never seen him either— he doesn't even know a name— but the mere thought of finding someone who _feels_ you, _understands_ you, makes you _laugh_ , only for them to leave, settles like a boulder on Castiel's chest. It's a bittersweet feeling, if he's being honest, for he has found a friend like no other friend he’s had before, and he knows now, how dearly he must cherish his time with his friend. Still, the foreboding feeling of being left alone in a few weeks' time nags at Castiel. 

_Focus on the positive_ , Castiel reminds himself as he steadies his breath and leans back against the wall. 

"Well then, Mr.Green, we must cherish ‘every minute of every hour’." 

"Oh god, you're talking about the note. Jesus, that was cringey, wasn't it?" 

"I found it rather sweet, Mr. Green." Castiel grins, a warmth blossoming across his face as he drops his gaze to his feet. 

"O—oh. I uh, I don't know what came over me when I wrote it." Green's voice is soft now, not dejected, but a little shy, as if he's been put right on the spot. 

"Well, I'm going to save it. Besides, it's not like you can come in here and take it away from me." Castiel bounces a shoulder to himself, a teasing edge to his voice. He's testing how far Green wants to go with his promise of remaining anonymous. 

"If you've made up your mind, nothing I can do about it." 

_Wow. He gave in quite easy_. 

A brief pause lingers in the air, before Green's voice travels along, sheepish now. 

"Could you read me another?" 

It takes Castiel a moment to realise Green is talking about the poems in the book, and he falters before smiling to himself. 

"Oh, of course." 

They don't speak then, and Castiel settles back snug against the chair as he flips a random page open. 

" _Everything that was broken has forgotten its brokenness. I live now in a sky-house, through every window the sun. Also, your presence. Our touching, our stories,_ " Shaky breaths slips past his lips, _" ~~-~~ Earthly and holy both. How can this be, but it is. Every day has something in __it whose name is forever_." 

Green doesn't respond for a moment, and Castiel's heart begins to drop lower in his chest. Then he hears a soft sigh, soft enough for him to miss it were it not for the silence drowning them. 

"I remember reading these a few years ago,” Green says. “They're magic, you know that?" 

"Magic?" 

"Mhm. They sound different now, just fancy words on a white paper, but when you're in love, it's as if every word means the world." Castiel smiles. 

"Sounds like you speak from experience. Have you been in love before?" 

"A few times." 

"Did it end?" 

“Yes.” 

"How?" 

"As all love does. In heartbreak." 

Love. Castiel has never been in love before. It’s never bothered him, not having a lover, but sometimes, when he catches his thoughts wandering, he does imagine a future filled with love. With someone to stay beside him. With someone who chooses to love him, above anything else. With someone who means everything to him, perhaps more than everything. He thinks of cold mornings and warm blankets, and sunny afternoons and lively chatter, of rainy nights and comforting arms. 

"Was it too harsh?" he finds himself asking. 

"Heartbreak, Blue. It’s supposed to be harsh." 

Castiel lets out a soft chuckle. “Who was it? Your first love? Or should I say, first heartbreak?"

A considering hum comes from across the room. 

"Eh, she was an old friend. Before I was drafted. Cassie. Cas." 

Castiel’s eyes widen. 

"Come again?" 

“Cassie. Why, is something wrong?”

The book in Castiel's hands is pressed shut as he leans forward in his chair. 

"Nothing, nothing at all. " He clears his throat. "What was she like?" 

"Beautiful. Sweet. Quiet. Soft. Kind-hearted. Everything I wasn't. If I was loud, she was gentle. If I was childish, she was mature. Obviously, the differences, they pull you in at first, but days go by, and you find yourself despising those differences. Some days her silence— the same one I found endearing, it irked me. Some days, my childishness irked her. And then I was drafted, and we fell apart. I haven't talked to her since, but I don't think I will again. Some things are better left the way they are." Green sighs, and Castiel finds it hard to move from his seat. 

"Don't you regret it, though? Not having made more effort to keep her?" He asks. 

"Some days. But then again, if I'd stayed with her, there's things I would’ve never learnt." 

"Like?" 

"Like... What it means to move on in life. What it means to let go. What it means to love again. And have your heart broken again." Green laughs, and Castiel senses a bitterness tinging his voice. 

"You'll find love one day, Green, I’m sure you will." 

"Eh, I hope so. Anyway, I've been meaning to ask. Is there a good Italian place around?" Castiel smiles. _Nice move, changing the subject._

"This is New York, Mr.Green. Walk a mile and you'll find everything you need." 

"Hell, I haven't had a decent meal in days, man, and I ain't below splurgin' a little. Usually, I make great food, y'know, but I just haven't found the time to shop for groceries these days." Green sighs, voice dim as he speaks. 

Now that gets Castiel's gears turning. 

"I'll cook you something for lunch, Green." 

"Oh?" 

Castiel smiles. "Yes. I'm a fairly decent cook, and I have some ravioli left. But, I have a condition." 

"Son of a bitch," Green sighs, “-whaddya’ want?”

“You mentioned to me about playing the guitar— 

“Crap,” Green mutters, and Castiel laughs, continuing his sentence.

“— and I need you to play something for me,” he says.

On the other end, Green is silent for a few minutes.

“I don’t know if my guitar works.”

“I’m sure it will once you start playing for me, Mr.Green,” Castiel says, a teasing edge to his voice as he smiles.

“I haven’t played it in ages,” Green muses, and Castiel hums with a quirk of his lips.

“Well, when was the last time you played?”

"About five years ago, I played for my mother the night before she passed." 

"Oh," Castiel gulps, evidently caught off-guard by the sensitive admission made by Green. Not wanting to prolong the silence between them, Castiel asks, "What did you play for her?" 

"’ _Hey Jude.’_ By the Beatles. It was a song she used to sing to put me to sleep each night. It was our song." 

An endearing, reminiscent undertone laces Green's words, and Castiel finds his own lips curling in a soft smile. 

"I can play the keys, if you want," he offers. 

A pause lingers in the air. 

"How about you feed me some of your _fairly decent_ food, and I'll think about it, yeah?" 

Castiel smiles and pushes himself up to his feet, setting the book down at the chair as he knocks at the wall. 

"I'm leaving now. Stick around, I'll knock again in a while once I leave the food out. Alright?" 

"Oh, it's more than alright." 

Green says, and Castiel imagines a grin stretching across stubbled cheeks. 

With a grin of his own, Castiel walks to his kitchen. He switches his radio on, letting a random channel play, as he grabs a few vegetables, some ravioli pasta, and a sauté pan. He's used to cooking for himself in doubles, since it serves him as dinner as well as his meal at the hospital. Before he knows it, the sauté pan is simmering with a thick tomato purée, and he adds in some spices, seasonings and some shredded chicken before moving onto the pasta. His fridge isn't particularly stocked, but he does have a few things he can work with, so he grabs a few more vegetables and pops them in the oven to roast them. 

In twenty-three minutes flat, Castiel is packing a container full of ravioli and roasted vegetables and leaving it outside the door of Mr.Green's flat and once back inside, he knocks on the wall. 

"I've put some lunch outside your door for you," Castiel says. Although he doesn't receive an answer, he does hear the door to the flat next to him open and shut a few seconds later. 

"Son of a bitch, Blue," Castiel hears Green gasp. "This smells amazing." 

"Told you. Fairly decent cook." 

Green laughs and the sound buzzes under Castiel's skin. He grabs a plate and a fork for himself, settling back down on the chair near the wall, mostly on reflex, as he digs into his lunch. 

"Well, bon appétit, Blue. " 

Green laughs, and then a content hum fills the air as the man across the wall hums. 

Lunch flows easily with both men speaking at varied points of time, mostly about Green's liking for Italian food, and how Castiel learnt to cook during his days as a college student. 

A glance at the clock in Castiel's living room, he realizes it is half past three in the afternoon. Jesus Christ, where the hell has the time gone? Castiel remembers bidding his student goodbye at eleven a.m. that morning, and all at once, it's three? Surprising. 

"... So then, we have these huge, buff guys as our trainers, and Benny and I, we were two lanky little sticks,— compared to the others in the group. Luckily, Turner didn't let us give up until we were oozing with pure muscle, so I guess that's why I wouldn't want _him_ to go to hell." 

_How did we end up here?_

"That's certainly very dedicated, Mr.Green. But I believe there's something from your side, a promise, you have yet to fulfil." 

Green goes pin-drop silent. 

"Shit, you haven't forgotten about it yet?" 

"It's only been about three-quarters of an hour, how could I forget?" Castiel snorts. 

With a loud, resonating sigh, Green gives in. 

"Fine," he groans, and on the other end, Castiel hears a faint shuffling, a light tapping on the floor boards. He knocks at the wall, only to be met with utter silence. 

"Mr.Green?" Castiel asks, hesitant but curious. 

A sound, one Castiel never expected to hear, drifts across the wall. 

The strumming of a guitar. 

"You're actually playing for me?" Castiel asks, eyes wide in disbelief as he stares at a mundane spot on the wall. 

"Well, I would have gotten back to playing one day or another. What difference does it make if I happen to play for you?" 

_Oh. That's so... Sweet._

Castiel's jaw goes lax and he lets his head fall against the wall with a dreamy smile.

"That's very..." He gulps. "That's very kind of you, Mr.Green." 

Green simply laughs, and the brush of fingers against the strings of a guitar floats through the wall again. 

"I'm sorry if it's a little off at some places, I haven't played in a long time." 

"I don't care." 

"'Kay." 

Castiel shuts his eyes and allows the chords to the first verse of _Hey Jude_ immerse him. 

" _Hey Jude_ ," Green starts, and _god, that baritone._ Castiel feels the hair on his arm stand as Dean’s voice filters through the silence, allowing Castiel to focus on nothing but the grit of Dean’s voice.

"… _Don't make it bad... Take a sad song, and make it better_." 

Before Castiel knows it, his fingers are drumming against the wooden arm of the chair, and his head sways on its own volition. 

" _Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start... To make it better._.." 

There's raw, unrefined emotion in Green's voice— undoubtedly from memories he probably does not like recalling. Castiel does blame himself for having insisted Green to sing, but here Green is, his smooth, whiskey voice entrancing Castiel's senses, the flow of his guitar lulling Castiel into a memory he doesn't even recall having. 

" _And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain, don't carry the world upon your shoulders..."_

It's not a memory, Castiel realises. It's a fantasy. 

" _For well you know that it's a fool, who plays it cool, by making his world a little colder_..." 

_It's snowing outside, and he's inside a compact, little cottage. There's a warmth around him, he believes it to be a blanket, but it's a body, draped over his from the back, and there's lips, dragging against his neck…_

"... _Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start, to make it better._.." 

At once, the fantasy dissipates into thin air, and Castiel blinks his eyes open. Silence ensues around him until he reminds himself Green is waiting for him. 

"Mr.Green,” he says, at once finding himself out of breath and at a loss for words. "That was... That was— I'm, I'm amazed." 

"It was okay," Green says, a dull tone to his voice, which prompts Castiel to shoot a glare at a blank wall. 

"No, it wasn't _just_ _okay_? Mr.Green, please, don't be so modest, it was very good. Trust me. I have nothing to gain from lying to you, so when I tell you it was good, you believe me." 

"Aggressively motivating, huh?" 

Green laughs and Castiel feels his face flush with heat. 

"Erm, I mean, I— yes. Your voice, it's soothing, and so heartfelt." 

"Thanks, sweetheart, it's been quite a while since I sang, or played. Didn't really expect to get back into music for a stranger." 

Castiel rolls his eyes. 

"I'd say we're a little past the stranger zone, aren't we?" 

"Friends, then. You're my friend now." Green says, and Castiel quirks the bottom of his lips. 

"I like the sound of that." 

"Good." 

Growing stillness envelopes them and Castiel breathes in deep, letting his shoulders go lax as he lounges back against the wall.

"You know what?" Castiel's words break into a laugh, and he grins, trying to refrain his amusement from hindering his speech. He presses a hand to his mouth to muffle his laughter. 

_Green is not going to like this_. 

"What?" 

"This," Castiel chuckles. "This, this reminds me of a—" His chuckle exalts into a rumbling laugh, and he hears Green sigh on the other side. 

"I can't hear a thing, Blue. Why don't you laugh first, and then speak?" 

Distinct mischief laces Green’s voice. 

"You'll hate me for this, but..." 

"But?" 

"This reminds me of a quote." 

"Jesus, Blue, what are you? Some kind of _walking quotes thesaurus_? Where do you even get these?" 

Castiel grins, his laughter subduing into a content sigh. "I tend to remember words better than numbers or anything. Words that people say to me, or words that I read. So, I do remember a lot of quotes." 

"Alright, let's hear it," Green says, and Castiel shuts his eyes, trying to recall each word of the quote. 

" _Strangers are just friends waiting to happen._ It's by _‘_ Rod McKuen’." 

"Well, I bet you'll be happy to know I haven't heard this one." 

Castiel considers it with a hum. "Eh, I don't know. I do like it when you finish my sentences." 

A silence lulls them both and Castiel blows out a soft, shaky breath before allowing his eyes to flutter open. 

Three months. Green is going to be here for three months, that's all. 

_We better make the best of these three months._

"So," Green asks after a prolonged silence. "You got more ravioli left?" 

Castiel laughs. It’s going to be a _long_ three months.


	4. Chapter 4

_And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,_

_So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,_

_The smiles that win, the tints that glow,_

_But tell of days in goodness spent,_

_A mind at peace with all below,_

_A heart whose love is innocent!_

_— Lord Byron_.

* * *

Castiel had fleshed out his routine ages ago. Sleep, eat, teach, cook, eat again, work. But ever since Mr. Green became a part of his day-to-day life, Castiel found his routine had changed. For almost a week now, his routine has been- sleep, eat, teach, blabber, blabber, blabber, cook, eat, work. 

Some days he blabbers about books. 

Some days he blabbers about movies. 

Some days he blabbers about the tiny lizard he had to kill in the bathroom. 

He blabbers about anything. 

And it's all because of Mr. Green. 

The most amusing part of this pantomime in their life, in Castiel's opinion, has to be the fact that their conversations no longer have to be deep or engaging or meaningful, as he once believed they had to be. For now, they just have to exist. 

Now this fact, although quite endearing, has put Castiel in a rather tight spot since it means Mr. Green is now privy to all aspects of his personality, and not just the one he's been showing for the past, well, two weeks now. 

So, on some mornings, when Castiel comes home from work at around seven, he'll hear a knock on the wall, and with the obedience of a third-grade child in love with his English teacher, Mr. Green will yell out a ‘ _g'morning, sunshine!_ ’ And to this, Castiel, in his exhausted, sleep-driven haze, will respond with something touching, something beautiful, like ‘ _whatever’_ , or ‘ _I need sleep’_ , or ‘ _knock again and I'll break your legs’_. 

Quite touching indeed. 

Mr. Green will simply laugh, taking Castiel's ominous warnings in good spirit, before yelling out a loud ‘ _g'night sunshine’_ * 

And then, after Castiel wakes up at three on the dot, every afternoon, he'll knock on the wall, yell out a ‘ _good morning’_ , and in return, receive a grumbled _'_ _don't seem like mornin’ to me_ ’. 

Point in case, Mr. Green is a master at balancing on the thin line between completely _annoyingly_ childish and unbelievably endearing. But Castiel now finds, he seamlessly fits into Castiel's routine, and has become a part of his life in ways Castiel could never have imagined before. 

It's a fine Friday evening, and Castiel is packing his work backpack when he hears the knock in the living room. 

"Hey, you leavin’?" Green asks. 

"Mhm, in a while." 

"Ah man, I wish we could talk right now." 

"Mr. Green, I talk to you every minute I'm free from work. Is that not enough?" Castiel chuckles, and hears Green give an unsatisfied whine. 

"Meh." 

"Oh, come on, you can manage without me. Besides, I'll be back home in a few hours, right?" 

In goes the snack box, the bottle, and his scrubs, folded up neat inside, as Castiel shakes his head at Green’s eagerness. 

"Yeah, but what if something exciting happens?" 

Green asks, his voice a notch higher with enthusiasm. 

"Exciting? Like what, you finally fall asleep at a reasonable time? I'd love to see _that_." 

"No, I mean, something exciting. Like what if... What if George Clooney said the next Ocean's movie is being shot here? How am I supposed to tell you?" 

Castiel pauses, shuts his eyes and sucks in a deep breath. 

"What makes you think George Clooney would shoot the next Ocean's movie in our one-room apartments in New York City?" 

"I," Green pauses, "-don't know. Alright, uhm, what if I were to run out of milk? Who would I ask?" 

"Just run down to a bodega?!" Castiel exclaims, eyes wide with disbelief as he stares at the wall. 

A pause lingers between them before Green speaks up, his voice resolute but soft. 

"What if I see a cat? Huh? _And_ a kitten too? What then? How am I supposed to show you? Or tell you?" 

"So, you want me to what, take a day off so we can wait on an imaginary cat that you think will climb up five flights of stairs in an enclosed apartment building for absolutely no reason at all?" 

"You forgot the kitten." Green adds, his voice a tad bit higher than a whisper, and Castiel groans with a mighty roll of his eyes, finding himself smiling not a second later as he moves around the house to grab his wallet. 

"You're unbelievable." 

"But I'm going to be bored without you." Green whines, loud and clear and it draws a chuckle from Castiel. 

"Well, get a hobby then." Green gives a loud, exaggerated sigh from across the wall. 

"But," he starts, and Castiel slings his backpack over his shoulders, slipping his white sneakers on as he waits for Green to finish. " ~~-~~ But I'll miss you." 

With a sigh, Castiel pauses and looks up at the wall, a dreamy smile on his face as Green’s pouty words settle in his thoughts.

"I'll miss you too,” he hums, “-But it's just a few hours, Mr. Green, and you need to be sleeping. Why don't you try some cold milk?" 

Castiel grabs his keys and stuffs them in his pocket. 

"I guess…" comes the bleak reply from across, and Castiel dims at the sound of the words. 

Right as he's walking out the door, his eyes fall upon a slip of paper, a flyer of sorts, and a fun idea pops up in his mind. 

_It certainly wouldn't hurt to simply leave it under his door_. 

They have strict rules pertaining to their identities, and although the world wouldn't crumble if they did happen to stumble into each other someday since they are _neighbours_ , their anonymity is essentially where the fun lies. 

But a phone number couldn't hurt. Besides, Castiel isn't really on any social media site. And the one abandoned Instagram account he does have, courtesy of Jack, is full of pictures or random things that Castiel stumbled across on work, like crunchy dried leaves on the pavement, a sparrow’s nest, or such. 

So, he grabs a pen from a stand on the desk, and writes down his phone number on the back of the flyer, accompanied by the word _Blue_. He folds the paper in half and holds it in his hand as he walks out and shuts the door behind him. With his heart in his throat, for although he knows Green and has been talking to him for quite a while now, they haven't quite delved into the _do's and don't's_ of talking outside of the walls of their homes, he crouches down at the door about a few feet away from his, and slips the note inside. 

_Moment of truth._

He pushes himself back up, rings the buzzer to Green's door, and runs for his life. He scrambles down the stairs to the fourth floor, pressing back against a wall, chest heaving as the adrenaline in his veins prompts him to pant. He slaps a hand over his mouth and laughs into his palm. 

_Did I just ding-dong-ditch my neighbour?_

He hears in the distance a door slamming shut and, with the certainty of Green having noticed the flyer, Castiel continues along on his walk down to the bus stand. 

* * *

"Jesus, Novak, you are shining," Alicia, one of Castiel's colleagues at the hospital, says as she saunters into the break room. 

At once, Castiel snaps his head up at her, a wide grin on his face. 

"Hey Alicia. Do you want some coffee?" 

Alicia stops, the brown curls on her shoulder bouncing as she turns to him, a glint of surprise in her eyes. 

"Hold on, you know my name? Like my first name?" 

Castiel nods and pulls a chair out. Alright, yes, he admits he isn't the most amicable person on the entirety of the third-floor night shift staff. And yes, he doesn't mingle much during the breaks, but he does help people when they need something and he’s always polite with others.

"Of course, I do. You told me to call you Alicia back when you asked me to run a few records for you." 

"Ah, I remember. And yes, I would love some coffee right now." 

Castiel smiles pours coffee into a cup, before turning back and handing it to her. 

"Okay, I'm confused. Are you in love? Did you get a new pet? Did management approve your leave, what? How are you so, no offence, so happy today?" She asks, as she settles down at the round little table and looks up at him. They've got about half an hour until their shift starts again, so Castiel indulges in a little pointless chat. 

"I'm just feeling good today." 

"Well, that's obviously not a bad thing. You wanna’ share why you’re feeling so upbeat?" 

Castiel sucks in a breath. 

"Because I ding-dong-ditched my neighbour." 

"You what?" Alicia sputters out some coffee, a silly grin on her face. 

"It's a, sorry, it's a thing my neighbour and I have going on. He's a really nice man." 

"I'll take your word for that. But it's nice to see you like this, all smiling and bubbly. Maybe you should ding-dong-ditch your neighbour more often." She winks and nudges Castiel's shoulder with her own. 

Castiel can't help the shy smile tugging at his lips. 

Truth is, Castiel hasn't had the time to check his phone all night, so he doesn’t know if Green has responded yet. But his smile? It stems purely from the thought of speaking to Green again. Their conversations play on repeat in his mind, the banter, the discussions, the laughter. It makes Castiel feel light. Like a feather floating in the breeze. 

Alicia reaches into her pocket for her phone and sets it down at the table, tapping away at it. The action prompts Castiel to do the same, so he digs his own phone out ~~,~~ swiping through the home screen for access. 

A bold, black notification glares at him from the top bar, and he taps on it. 

**Unknown:**

**> hey**

**> is this Blue? the guy from next door? **

Castiel's heart skips a beat as he glances down at the delivery time. Oh? It's only been about ten minutes since the message was sent? Why did it take Green so long to text him? His eyebrows draw together and a frown graces his lips as he taps away at the keyboard. 

**< Hi. **

**< Yes, Mr. Green. It's me. **

**< It took you quite a while to text? **

Castiel sends the text, and quickly adds the contact to his device. 

He waits. And waits. _And waits_. 

About four minutes later, he notices three white dots on the screen. 

_He's typing. Oh dear_. 

**Mr. Green:**

**> uh yeah sorry**

**> i didn't know there was a number on the back of the flyer i thought some kid just put it in so i ignored it**

**> wait was it you who rang the bell and vanished? **

**< What makes you think it wasn't me?**

**> because... It was a flyer for a convenience store,,, Blue,,, **

_Oh. My bad._

**> i saw your number a bit ago when I was about to wipe some milk with the flyer**

**< I don't even have an explanation; it was a very impulsive decision on my part. **

The three white dots appear again. 

**> r u on break? **

**< Yes. **

Castiel's message is followed by no response at all, and the online symbol next to Green's name on the messenger disappears as well. An anchor drops within Castiel's gut. 

Does Green not want to talk to him? 

With a heavy sigh, Castiel pushes his phone away, only for it to vibrate with a loud buzz on the wooden table. Alicia throws him a glance at the sound of the vibration and Castiel swipes the phone back into his hands, staring down at it. 

It's a call. From Mr. Green. 

_He's calling me? Right now?_

Castiel swipes up and presses the phone to his ear, pushing himself up on his feet as he strolls over to the window behind him. 

"Hello?" he asks, a bit hesitant, since he's never heard Green's voice devoid of the barrier between them. Of course, it wouldn't differ much, but somehow there must be a clarity in the phone call that a conversation through a wall cannot offer. 

"Hey Blue." 

The worn-out tone of Green's voice draws Castiel to hitch a breath, and he swallows thick, leaning against the window as he answers. 

"Why aren't you asleep? I thought I made it clear that you need seven hours of sleep at the most." 

Castiel gazes out the glass panes at the view of the soothing, pitch-black night sky adorned with sky-scrapers of varied sizes: the picturesque view of a city. In no manner, are the roads abandoned, and the city is as alive at night as it is in the day— livelier, actually. 

"I couldn't sleep, Blue, you know it. Besides, I always fall asleep around four and there's about a quarter of an hour left until then. So, I thought I'd keep you a little company." 

With a scoff, and an incredulous shake of the head, Castiel smiles. 

"My break ends in a bit. At four." 

"All the more reason to talk to you.” Green says. “Your voice doesn't sound much different, y'know, but it does sound clear." 

"I figured." Castiel shrugs. 

"So," Green starts after a pause. "How's your work coming along?" 

"Quite well, actually. We had a new patient today on my record, a young girl with a fractured limb and temporary paralysis. Got into an accident with a bicycle." 

Green hisses audibly, before clicking his tongue. 

"Ah, I hate watching kids cry and all. Hate seeing them hurt." 

"I know. Something about their innocence, it just seems unfair for them to be so upset, I suppose." Castiel sighs. 

There's a hum on the other end, and a gasp followed after it. 

"You need to sleep, Mister. I can hear you yawn." 

"Who said I'm," There's another prominent gasp on the end, which draws a smile at Castiel’s lips, " ~~-~~ yawning?" 

"Calculated guess." Castiel snorts, and hears the slight thwomp of something solid hitting something soft. 

"Can I say something?" 

"Sure." 

"Is it weird that I like talking to you?” Green asks, his voice softer now, laced with distinct exhaustion. “I mean, it's only been what, a week or two, but it's like, you get me." 

"I know what you're saying." 

"I think you're like the best thing that happened to me this month." 

"That's a very sweet thing to say, Mr. Green. You know I admire your ability to compliment people so easily. I never know what to say to people." 

On the window is a little scrap of chipping paint- Castiel slips his thumb under, fiddling with it as he speaks. 

"I ain't here for a long time, Blue. I need you to remember me as _greatly_ as possible." Green snorts, and Castiel smiles. 

"I think I undoubtedly will." 

"Mhm." 

A silence ensues, and Castiel glances back at the bright red-rimmed wall clock on the front of the room. There's about five minutes until break ends; until his call with Green ends. 

"I have to leave in a few minutes," he says. 

"Mhm." 

"Are you asleep?" 

"Mhm." A pause, before Green speaks up, "-I mean, no, I'm awake, yes, I’m completely awake." 

Castiel laughs at that, _typical Mr. Green,_ and folds an arm across his chest as he rests against the window sill. 

"Mr. Green, go to sleep, please? I can practically _hear_ you falling asleep now." 

"In a while. Besides, I get my four hours, I'm good for the day." 

"Stay in late, get some more sleep. I don't think we'll talk until three anyway." Castiel suggests, his eyes tracking every skip of the clock. 

"I'll leave you out some lunch if you want." 

"Oh?" Castiel scoffs. "- And what is it you'll cook?" 

"Hm, a little birdie told me there's this guy next door to me who loves hamburgers. Thought I'd leave some out for him." 

A smile graces Castiel's lips as he looks away, a warmth unfurling in his chest and across his cheeks. 

"Don't bother, Green, really. Just please get some sleep. Am I going to have to use my nurse voice on you?" 

"You have a nurse voice?" comes the response, voice now laced with amazement and a new-found vigour. 

"Of course, I do." 

"Is it like a _sexy_ nurse voice or like one of those strict _listen-to-me-or-I'll-break-your-kneecaps_ kind of nurse voice?" 

Castiel throws a wide-eyed glance towards Alicia who seems quite engrossed in her phone, typing away furiously with a blank expression. He turns away, inching his lips closer to the microphone as his face stings with heat, and his words quiver. 

"It's not— I mean, it's not— what kind of hospitals have you been to, Green? It's a, a, a strict nurse voice. I have to be strict,” He fumbles, “-But also caring. You know, _balance_." 

"Mmhm. This is good, this is good,” Green laughs, his voice low and hoarse, sending a shiver down Castiel’s spine, “-I like hearing you all flustered, y'know, 'cause your voice goes kinda’ high and it's hilarious." 

_This man is incorrigible._

"My voice does not go high?!" Castiel all but yells out, eyes wide with offence.

"It just did." 

"Alright, you know what," Castiel starts, turning away with a hand on his hip, "-good night Mr. Green, I'll knock tomorrow." 

"What, are you mad because I said your voice goes high?" Green laughs again, prompting Castiel to roll his eyes. 

"No, but my break is over. And I need to work. More importantly, you, mister, need to sleep. Alright? So, bye, and good night." 

"Aw, 'kay, good night. Wait no, it's no good night for you." 

"Whatever, Mr. Green. I'm hanging up." 

"Sure." 

Castiel pauses. He doesn't hang up. 

"Are you hanging up?" Green asks after a moment. 

"Yes." 

"You're not hanging up." 

"Well, you're not either." 

"You said _you're_ hanging up?!" 

"Fine, good night." 

And then Castiel does hang up. 

With a fond roll of his eyes, he turns back. Alicia is near the coffee kettle now and she sends him a knowing glance. 

"What?" Castiel asks. 

"Girlfriend?" 

"Uh, I'm gay." 

She falters, but immediately corrects herself, resuming her knowing grin. 

"Boyfriend?" 

Castiel laughs and walks over to down the remnants of his coffee. 

"What makes you say that?" 

"I don't know. Just the way you spoke, I guess." She shrugs and with a smile, walks off. 

_As if I would ever date Mr. Green_. 

Castiel scoffs. 

He hasn't even seen the man, for crying out loud. Besides he seems far too old for Castiel's tastes. Well, he's not really that old, but it doesn't matter anymore. Mr. Green is obviously, _painfully_ straight. Castiel recalls their conversation about his past lovers. Not to mention the stiffness in Green’s voice when Castiel mentioned the play about the _queer_ man struggling with his sexuality. He’d sounded strangely hesitant about it. It's best not to ponder over things like these, he decides. He likes Mr. Green as a friend. And he wants it to stay that way. 

As soon as the last drop of coffee leaves his cup, Castiel crumples it and chucks it into the trash can. He's right about to leave the break room, when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He digs it out of his scrubs and taps on the dark screen. 

**Mr. Green:**

**> i'll be waiting for you**. 

Castiel smiles. A smile nothing in the world can erase. 


	5. Chapter 5

_"That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you're not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong."_

— _F. Scott Fitzgerald._

* * *

The screen goes black and a moment later the end credits, small and white, begin to roll down the screen. Dean flips his laptop shut ~~,~~ and blinks away a tear pooling at the rim of his eyes. His head falls back against the wall, and a heavy sigh slips past his lips. Around him, silence lingers for a moment, paired with the soft howling of autumn breeze outside his window. A moment later, he hears the muffled sound of shuffling on the floor, and then a knock thumps against the wall. 

“Green?” 

“Yeah?” he answers, noting how Blue’s voice has gone gentle, and that he no longer uses the word ‘ _mister’_ before his nickname. Of course, they’re well past the formalities now; it’s been almost a month since they struck up their peculiar friendship.

“I think I might cry a little,” Blue says, prompting Dean to smile. Blue’s ability to simply speak his mind is something Dean truly admires. Something he wishes he could have as well. 

“It _was_ a sad movie. I guess I would have been around seven or eight, back in ‘ninety-one. I don’t remember it clearly, but I do remember the radio playing Queen for weeks.” Dean glances down at his shut laptop before setting it down next to him and grabbing his beer by the neck of the bottle, taking a swig to soothe his dry throat. 

It's become a ritual for them now. Each Saturday evening, they choose a movie to watch together on their laptops, settled back against the wall to each other. They could simply call or text each other, but somehow their conversations across the wall have become an innate part of their friendship. 

“Bohemian Rhapsody is one of the first songs I heard when I heard rock for the first time. I think it was quite apt of the creators to name the movie after the song,” Blue muses. 

There’s truth to his words, so Dean quirks his bottom lip, nodding his head as he takes another swig. 

“It’s a classic, Blue, ain’t nothing like it in the world anymore. S’irreplaceable.” 

“That’s true.” 

An easy silence ensues, and Dean grabs a handful of peanuts, flinging them into his mouth one by one, before Blue breaks the silence by sighing out loud. 

“The world is so unfair, right? I mean, Freddie didn’t deserve that. There are thousands of people in the world that didn’t deserve the way they were treated for being in the LGBTQ+ community.” 

“Life’s unfair, Blue, nothing we can do about it. But look at the impact he made. People worship him, buddy. He’s an icon, and the world will always know him as such.” A dim buzz, from the beer must be, thrums under Dean’s skin as he speaks. 

“I know, but to be an openly queer musician in the nineties, think about all the people he inspired, all the people his existence validated. Of course, people still speculate whether he was bisexual or if he realized he was gay later in life, but knowing for a fact that he was queer, I mean, it’s exceptional. Sometimes I wish I had an idol like him to look up to when I was young, but my parents never indulged in rock music, and my brothers and I, we practically grew up in a church.” 

Dean snorts, throwing another peanut into his mouth. “Did your parents try to _pray the gay away?_ ” 

“No, I didn’t tell them until I was eighteen.” 

“Smart.” 

“But judging from the Britney Spears posters I kept hidden in my room, I’d say my siblings saw it coming.” Blue laughs, and the sound drifts across the wall, shaky and low, sending a shiver down Dean’s spine. A moment later his laugh subdues into silence, until he speaks again, words tinged with bitterness. 

“It’s easy for you straight people. You can just come home with a girl in your hands and your parents wouldn’t bat an eye. But the moment I tell my mom I’m attracted to men, it’s as if the apocalypse has occurred right there, in our little suburban house in Pontiac, Illinois.” 

_Wait a minute_. 

Dean straightens, eyebrows knit together as he turns back to stare at the wall, the beer in his hand lowering with uncertainty. 

_Does Blue not know about me being… being…?_

For a long second, Dean can’t find it in himself to answer. Should he tell Blue? It’s not like Blue would judge him. Undoubtedly, Dean would be accepted for who he is, but then again, he can’t say it out loud for the life of him. Not since John. Not since the fight. 

“Green?” Dean blinks, the sound of the word drawing him out a stupor he never realized he slipped into, and he wonders how long he’s been silent for. 

“Blue, I’m,” _Now or never_ , “ ~~-~~ I’m not, I’m—" 

A pause. 

“I’m not straight. Not completely.” 

_There it is._

Three words. _I’m not straight_. They hang in the air, a sword looming over Dean’s neck as the ticking of the clock in the room intensifies, only reminding Dean of Blue’s persistent silence. 

_Is he offended? No, why would he be offended? Is he, maybe, surprised? Could be. Why hasn’t he said anything yet?_

Dean shifts nervously in his seat, rolling a peanut in his fingers to distract himself from the repulsive quiet between them. 

“I… what?” Blue finally asks, his voice softer. 

_God no, he’s gonna’ make me say it again? Damn it_. 

“I said,” Dean raises his voice, “ ~~-~~ I’m not straight. Not completely. I like women. And men.” 

A long moment seems to pass before Blue speaks up. 

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” 

His voice is calm, not a single trace of surprise in it, but there is a prominent endearment lacing his words. 

“I don’t know. It’s not something I tell people.” 

Dean gulps. 

“I, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume, it's just— I’d been under the impression that you were straight. Especially since we talked about your past relationships a few weeks ago. May I… May I ask why you don’t tell people about it, or am I crossing a line?” 

Now this tugs a smile at Dean’s lips. _Oh Blue, always so formal._

“It’s a long story.” 

“I have time,” Blue says, and the smile at Dean’s lips broadens. 

"Well, it's… it's a part of me, and I know that, but it's a part of me I've tried to ignore for a long time. I mean, back when I was exploring everything, I'm talking back in the nineties, early two-thousands, bisexuality wasn't really considered a real thing, y'know. You were either straight, gay, or trans. I guess I always knew I liked men, maybe not more than women, but yeah, still. But I ignored it when I was in high school. Ignored it when I was enlisted. Kept ignoring it." 

A beat passes between them. 

"Are you ashamed of it? You don't have to be, Green." 

"Naw, naw, you're getting me wrong, buddy. I'm not ashamed of it." Dean lets go of the few peanuts in his hand, drops them back into the bowl as he speaks. " ~~-~~ I just don't make it a big deal." 

A pregnant silence ensues between them, only dissipating when Blue speaks up again. 

"Not that it's my concern, but do you ever think, maybe, you're just, _burying_ your sexuality under years of internalized bi-phobia?" 

"Internalized bi-phobia? What's that?" 

Dean asks, eyes narrowed in confusion as he stares at the wall behind him. 

"It's homophobia, of sorts, but against bisexuals. And when you internalize it, you're convincing yourself what you identify as is wrong. You look for ways to brush your doubts and your feelings away, you try telling yourself what you feel is fake, or what you feel is a phase, or that you can't be attracted to more than a single gender, and that's the worst kind of hatred, Green, because it eats you from the inside out.” 

Dean pauses, and his gaze drifts over the mundane items in his room. His heart, however, races, his thoughts ablaze, questions popping up on every nook and cranny of his mind. 

"I—" 

Dean begins, but is cut off by Blue speaking up again, his voice higher and keen. 

"Is that what you've been telling yourself? This entire time?" 

"Well, not really—" he starts, but Blue cuts him off again. 

"Because if you have been, Green, you need to let it go." 

Dean sighs, waiting for Blue to finish, but his words remain lost on his tongue and silence fills the air between them, until Blue speaks again, his voice now lower, more hesitant. 

“I- I’m sorry, I was being too preachy. Sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, you don’t need to feel liable to answer—" 

"I'm not internalizing anything, buddy,” Dean says after a pause, dismissing Blue’s doubts, “-I'm just saying you have doubts sometimes, right? Like, am I really bisexual? Am I just faking— _oh_." 

Blue chuckles on the other side, and although he can't see Dean, heat spreads across Dean's face in embarrassment. He fiddles with a fingernail, his words hanging in the air between them. 

"I think I want to blame my father for all the doubts, but I'm also old enough to know I'm just trying to justify something that I chose to do willingly. I chose to—" 

"Your father? What did he do?" 

"Father?" Dean asks, confused as to why Blue is asking. 

"Yes, you mentioned blaming your father. What did he do?" 

_I did?_

Dean falters for a moment before collecting his scrambled thoughts and composing them into comprehensive words. Or at least he hopes that’s what they are. 

"Oh, right, uh, it's nothing. It's just, my mother knew about it, I mean, she's my mom, she knows me in and out, so she guessed. Dad overheard us speaking, and he just… lost it." Blue sighs, and the sound tugs at a string in Dean's heart. 

"Did he hit you?" Dean laughs. 

"No, no, dad would never do that. He was strict, yes, and disciplined, Jesus, but he never hit us. Never once. Not my mother, not my brother, not me. He cursed me, sure, hell, he even told me I should've been dead in a blast, and sometimes I think a slap to the face would have been better than the things he said to us, but no, he never hit us. He did, however, find my attraction to men, and I quote, ‘ _completely immoral, disgusting, and unmanly_.’" He let out a short, bitter laugh, remembering the words his father would say to him at times his attraction to men would show through, even after years of hiding it. 

"I don't understand,” Blue asks and Dean allows himself the time to pop a few more peanuts in his mouth. “-Is that supposed to be funny? It sounds quite hurtful." With an indignant hum, Dean continues. 

"It's funny because… Well, now that I think of it, the things he said to me, they never really changed the truth, did they? And now, I realize, I still managed to recall his words every time I found myself attracted to a man." He scoffs, eyes wandering down to the bottle of beer in his lap. " ~~-~~ I've fooled around plenty, but I’ve always kept myself from a relationship, y'know? I've dreamt, hell, _fantasized_ about men, but I've always thought of them as forbidden territory." 

"How long ago was that?" Blue asks. 

Dean sighs, eyes narrowing as he ponders over the question. 

"Hmm… let's see, I think... yeah, ten years ago. Mhm. Dad and I had this _nasty_ fight when I was around twenty-six." 

Blue speaks after a pause. 

"Do you still live by what your father said?" 

_Do I?_

Dean halts for a moment, everything disappearing as if at the click of a finger, and he questions, for the first time in years, if what Blue says is true. 

When was the last time Dean allowed himself to indulge in his attraction to men? Forget about men, shit, he doesn't even remember the last time he dropped by a bar, had a few beers, chatted up some woman, and then went home, leaving her hanging as he did in his early thirties before the war. Dean remembers a few women at the camp, and the nights they'd spent together, he also remembers a few men at the camp, and how he'd only gone to third base with them in the late hours of the night on their days off. 

_It's only been a few years since I’ve changed._

_A_ _nd why have I changed?_

_Who did this to me? Did I do it to myself?_

A knock on the wall draws him out his thoughts and Dean turns to the sound with a passive look on his face. 

"Green. Your father, _may his soul rest in peace_ , isn't here anymore. And as unfortunate as that is, you have the freedom to live your life the way you want to. No one is going to question you, no one is going to stop you. You can't let the words he said to you ten years ago keep you from living the rest of your life to the fullest." 

The words Blue utters drift Dean into memory, and he shuts his eyes, letting his head fall back against the wall... 

_"You seem upset, boy.'_

_Dean pauses, a cursory smile gracing his lips as he turns to his father, a bowl of soup in his hands. He sets the bowl onto the bed-stand next to his father's bed._

_'I_ _'m not, dad. It's nothing.'_

_'You're lying to me, I know.'_

_John heaves a sigh, his hand reaching for Dean, glassy eyes regarding Dean with an odd affection Dean doesn't recall seeing before._

_'_ _Dad, you gotta’ eat this up, okay?'_

_'_ _I wasn't a good father, was I?'_

_'_ _Dad, this really isn't the time to_ — _'_

 _'T_ _his is all the time I have. Answer me.'_

_With a gulp, Dean hangs his head down ~~,~~ and purses his lips, stroking a thumb over his father's veiny palm. _

_'_ _I wasn't, Dean, I…' John pauses, breathing in a shallow breath as his eyes drift up to meet Dean's. 'It was the one thing I was supposed to be good at, the one thing that actually mattered, and I failed at it.'_

_'That's not true, dad, you were a good father, you are, and you always will be. You're my mentor, my role model. You're the person I've always wanted to be.'_

_John laughs, and brushes him off, the sound weak and twisting something within Dean's gut._

_'_ _Then you have bad taste in role models, son.'_

_A quiet ensues between them and John sighs, eyes wandering out the window behind Dean. Around them, the languid afternoon breeze flows through the room, and in the silence of the mid-hours of the day, in the hours before the pinkish-blue evening, there are things to be said, things to be answered, but Dean knows the afternoon is all they have. Sam will be here tomorrow. But John will be gone. Long gone._

_After a long silence, John speaks up again, brushing his fingers over Dean's._

_'_ _I'm sorry, son.'_

_'_ _For what, dad?'_

_'For a lot of things. For things I said. For things I never said. Part of me was always too full of pride. I never admitted I was wrong, even if I knew I was. And I suppose if I'd said some things at the right time, maybe you'd have been a different, more confident person.'_

_Dean suppresses the lump in the back of his throat._

_'_ _Dad, you don't have to apologize. You said the things you thought were right. And if_ — _'_

 _'_ _No, no, don't defend me. Don't justify me. I'm not asking you to glorify me, Dean. I'm asking you to tell me I was wrong. Tell me I was human, and that I made mistakes and said things I shouldn't have.'_

_Dean swallows thickly, his hands grasping onto his father's slender, weak fingers as a resolute glint burns in his eyes._

_'_ _I guess you're right, dad. You said things you shouldn't have. Some things both Sam and I keep close to our hearts even today. And he can brush these things off easily, dad, he doesn't think of them that often. But you know I do. You know it stung me when you said those things. You know you could've handled it better.'_

_John reaches up, brushing a hand through Dean's hair._

_'_ _You were always so mature. So understanding, so accepting. Our eldest, our first son. And Mary and I, unknowingly, we made you compromise so much. Things we never asked Sam to either. And you never complained, not once. Somewhere along the line we took you for granted, and you accepted it all with a smile. I'm sorry, Dean, I'm not asking you to forgive me, I know I don't deserve that_ — _'_

 _Dean tries to oppose him, only for John to cut him off._

_'Dad_ — _'_

 _'_ — _but the least you can do for me right now, is talk to me. About yourself. About your life. I don't know how long I have, five minutes, five hours but I want to die happy. I have regrets, yes, but I also have two sons who make me proud every day. And I believe in them, Dean, I believe in you.'_

 _A pause._

_'_ _I'm proud of you, Dean.'_

_A tear slips down Dean's face and he squeezes his father's hands. He can't find the right words, so he doesn't know what to say. Sorry? Thank you? Don't go? He doesn't know what he wants to say. He doesn't know what to say at all._

"Green? Are you there?" 

The loud call of his name, his nickname, snaps him out of his memories, and for the second time that hour, he realizes he was lost in his memory. Before he can speak, he hears muffled shuffling and for a moment, Dean wonders if Blue is leaving, offended by Dean's frequent zoning out, but a few long seconds later, though, he hears the sound of his ringtone, his phone buzzing on the coffee table a few feet away from him. 

Dean pushes himself off the chair, careful not to spill beer over his trousers as he walks over to the table. The screen reads, in bold, **Blue**. With a grin, Dean swipes right, pressing the phone to his ear. 

"Blue?" he asks, his voice hoarse from having remained silent for so long. 

"Thought you fell asleep." There's mischief lacing Blue's voice, and Dean finds it hard to resist him. 

"Naw, was just lost in some memories.” 

“Good or bad?” 

"From when my dad passed." 

Blue hums. "You didn't answer my question yet." 

"Which one?" 

"I asked you why you still live by your father's words. The hurtful ones. Do you think he'd want that?" Dean smiles, walking into his kitchen, phone wedged between his neck and shoulder. 

"I don't think so. I don't think dad would want me to live like this." 

"Then," Blue starts, his voice tender and endearing, " ~~-~~ why do you still live like this, _Mister_ Green?" 

There's something so oddly affectionate and mischievous about Blue's voice, something so childish, and it tugs at something deep inside Dean's chest. 

"There's things I've done, Blue, things you can never imagine doing." 

"Is this about the war, Green?" 

Dean remains silent for a moment ~~,~~ as he pulls his fridge open for another beer. 

"Hmm." 

"I've told you this before. You can't change what you did, can you? You regret it, yes, you’ve acknowledged you were wrong, and you're trying to make amends. You're not part of it anymore." 

Blue is simply trying to assure Dean, and it is sweet of him to do, but Dean knows he doesn't deserve to be treated like this, so compassionately, so tenderly, and Blue’s words spark a wave of anger inside of him. 

"Forget about it, Blue. It's a part of me I'm always going to carry along, okay?" Dean snaps, wincing at his tone and listening to Blue go silent. "-Every day I wake up and look at myself, there's a blaring reminder of what I did. Nothing is going to change that. Nothing is going to bring back those men or those boys, and nothing is going to make the bombing disappear. And trust me, I'm way beyond the whole trying to _'forget it'_ thing, alright? I can't. Tell me, honestly, if you did something like that, could you forget? Could you step into my shoes, look me in the eye, and say ‘ _I'm going to forget the fact that I killed innocent men under the flag of patriotism, and now I'm alright with who I am_. Could you, Blue?" 

A sharp silence meets Dean's ears in response and he sighs, popping the cap open before pressing the beer bottle to his lips. He puts the call on speaker and sets his phone down on the counter. Gulp after gulp after gulp, he downs at least half of the bottle in a single go and hisses when the bottle falls away from his lips. 

"Nobody is telling you what you did was right, Green. And you know what, I'll be honest, it’s horrifying that you were a part of something like that. All I'm trying to say to you is that you are _more_ than what you did, okay? You made some very unfortunate mistakes, and yes, you must be paying for them, if your overall anxiousness and all your sleepless nights and breakdowns, which by the way, I hear very distinctly in my bedroom at two in the morning every Sunday are any indications." 

"Blue I—" Dean begins, only to be cut off by Blue, who now seems to have slipped into a venting episode—which in his defense, Dean can’t scold him for. 

"No, what I'm telling you," Blue heaves a breath, his voice stern and resolute, "-is that despite these flaws, you deserve to be happy. You deserve to fall in love with whoever you want, you deserve to do the things you love, and you deserve to live life your way." 

Dean grins at the last bit, leaning back against the counter as he swallows down Blue's words with a sip of beer. 

"Who would love me, Blue? You think anyone is going to want to love someone like me?" 

Blue pauses for a moment, and Dean hears some clinking in the distance. _Is he cooking? Must be._

"There are seven billion people in the world, Dean. There must be someone. You'll find them one day." 

Dean snorts and shakes his head, grinning with a mellow mirth. 

"Well, if I don't find anyone, guess I'll just be stuck with you." 

"That seems way more believable than the prospect of me finding someone actually decent to date, if I'm being honest." 

Blue laughs, and Dean listens, simply listens to how his laughter resembles that of a child, and how it sounds like melting chocolate in a cup of warm milk, or like a glass of whiskey on a cold, lonely night. 

"You better tell me about whoever you do end up with. And if he ain't into music, any kind, or if he's one of those dog people, drop him." Dean takes another swig of his beer as he hears Blue laugh louder, prompting a smile to pull at the corner of his lips. 

"I'll just date you then." Blue teases, and Dean sputters out some beer, cheeks flushing red at the sound of Blue's low, playful voice. 

He shifts his weight onto his other leg, rubbing a hand at his neck. 

"I don't date kids, buddy." Blue feigns a gasp, and in the distance, Dean hears something sizzle. _So it does seem like he's cooking._

"Well then, you lost your chance, grandpa.” 

"Grandpa? Really?" Dean scoffs, shaking his head with a grin. 

"Kid? Really?" Blue parrots his words, and Dean finds the grin at his lips broadening. 

"Okay, whatever." Blue laughs, and Dean hears the sizzle one again. 

"Whatcha' cookin'?" Blue pauses for a moment, and Dean hears the clinking of plates. 

"I made us some curry and rice. I'll leave it at your door." he says, and Dean's eyes widen as he walks out into the living room, having finished his third bottle of beer that evening, phone pressed to his ear. 

"Oh, you angel." Dean sighs, and plops himself down on his couch, crossing his leg over the other as he sprawls back. 

"I'm far from an angel." 

"Bullshit. You cook me stuff all the time. You play amazing music for me. You always make me laugh. And you understand me, Blue, more so than anyone I've met. So, really, are you not an angel?" 

Blue sighs, but his voice is sated, and Dean wonders, not for the first time that day, what Blue looks like. If he wears glasses, or if he has a long nose. It doesn’t matter to Dean, but it does intrigue him, despite his own rule of anonymity. 

"You're going to hate me for this, but this reminds me of—" 

"Jesus, not another quote, you walking thesaurus of a man," Dean groans, causing Blue to laugh. His voice fills Dean's ear like a harp as he catches his breath and continues speaking. 

"It's not a quote, no, it's from the Bible. _'Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it_.' Hebrews thirteen-two, I believe." 

Something about the way he recites the verse prickles under Dean's skin. 

"Oh, Blue. You're real cute, you know that?" Heat spreads across Dean's face, and he listens as Blue falters over the phone. 

"I— oh, thanks, I, guess," Blue says. "-oh, by the way, I'm leaving your dinner out. Make sure you eat on time, Green." 

"Are you worried about me?" Dean asks. 

"I am, yes." 

A loopy grin graces Dean's lips, and he finds himself shutting his eyes and letting Blue's voice drown him. 

"'Kay, angel," he teases, earning him a groan from the man over the line, " ~~-~~ I'll eat up." 

"Good," Blue notes, and then there's shuffling over the line before the call ends. Strange, Dean thinks, how Blue ended their call so abruptly, but a moment later, his doorbell rings. He pauses, allowing Blue time to leave, before walking over to the door and twisting it open. True to Blue’s word, a warm container of rice and curry sits at his door. The moment Dean pops the lid open, the aromatic scent of spices hits him right in his senses and he hums. 

He walks inside again, slamming the door shut behind him and setting the container on the kitchen counter. He grabs a spoon before walking back to his chair and raps against the wall he shares with Blue. 

"What?" comes the distant reply, and Dean grins at the familiarity in Blue’s voice. 

"Thanks for the dinner, Blue," he says, as he settles down into his chair. There are a few peanut shells lying on the floor and Dean makes a mental note to clean them up later. 

The loud thumping of footsteps nearing and the sound of weight settling against the wall reaches Dean's ears before Blue speaks again. 

"I hope you like it, Green." 

For a fraction of a second, time stills around him. 

And then he feels it. 

The warmth in his chest. The thumping of his heartbeat. The buzz in his veins. 

He's feeling something right now that he hasn't felt since he was twenty-nine. 

Something soft. Something tender. Something frightening. 

"Dean," he says. 

"What?" Blue asks, notably confused.

"My name is Dean. Dean Winchester." 

Silence follows Dean's words. All his doubts and thoughts seem to vanish. He doesn't know why he told Blue his name, or what he's saying. All he knows is _Blue_. How he laughs like a child. How he speaks with the wisdom of a saint. How he gets pouty when Dean teases him. How every time Dean hears him speak, he never wants him to stop. How every time he's concerned for Dean, his voice heaves with emotion. 

Part of Dean wants Blue to know his name, wants him to know who he is. 

Part of him wishes he’d never met Blue. 

"Castiel," Blue says, after a long pause. "-My name is Castiel Novak." 

_Castiel._

_Like an angel_. 

He etches the word into the walls of his mind. 

"Hey Cas." 

Dean doesn't mean to shorten it on purpose, but _Castiel_ sounds like a mouthful, and _Cas_ sounds more familiar. It just fits. 

A long beat passes between them, until Castiel speaks up again, mirth lingering in his voice. 

"Hello Dean." 


	6. Chapter 6

_You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams._

— _Dr. Seuss._

* * *

It is a beautiful winter's morning in the city of New York. The trees are bare, pavements filled with dried leaves, and a chill lingers in the air. In the early hours of the morning, the sunrise paints the city as if it were a blank canvas waiting to be spilled with an array of colours. Although the breeze flowing in through Castiel's window is cold, sharp and distant, a peculiar warmth surrounds Castiel. A warmth that bubbles inside him, a warmth that twinkles in his eyes and graces his lips in a wide, unbudgeable smile. There's a skip in his gait, a hum in his throat, a song in his head, and an ardour in his spirits. 

It seems as though not a single thing in the world can damper his mood today. 

Standing in the kitchen, his hands occupied with a knife and the pie he baked, he glances at the calendar and notes it's the third of December, which means it's been almost a month and a half since Castiel struck up an eccentric friendship with Mr.Green— no— _Dean_. 

Dean, whose voice sounds like a beautiful Sunday evening with a mug of hot cocoa, whose laugh, contagious to say the least, is always hearty and rich, no matter how mundane a situation may be. Dean, who struggles to understand himself, but makes an effort with Castiel's advice. Dean, who leaves books for Castiel to read at his door, only asking for apple pie in return. Dean, who falls asleep at times, in the midst of their conversation, making Castiel chuckle and give a fond roll of his eyes before ringing him up and urging him to get to bed. Dean, who leaves little chocolates in the containers he returns to Castiel after dinner. 

Dean, who once was nothing more than a mere interruption in Castiel's life, but has now become a part of Castiel in ways he finds himself unable to explain. 

Castiel tells himself it's not an obsession— no, because he knows obsession is not something he's capable of, or even has the time for, but yes, he's invested. He's more than willing to listen to Dean ramble on about the mixtapes he made back in high school, or the story of how his parents met, or how his liking for powdered donuts developed. 

And somehow, in these little things, Castiel finds himself smiling, nodding along to Dean's words, losing himself in the sound of Dean's blithe laughter. 

He doesn't know what it is— this spark flittering between them. Or at least he tries to tell himself he doesn't. But somewhere in a distant corner of his mind, he knows what it is, knows what it means when his veins thrum with excitement when Dean knocks at the wall, or what it means when his heart drops the days Dean doesn't feel like talking much, or why his chest heaves with unease on nights when Dean wakes from his nightmares, calling for Castiel from across the room. 

_‘Cas,_ ’ He remembers the broken sound of his name from across the wall one night, _‘-please, don’t leave_ _—_ _I need you.’_ He remembers the tears at the rim of his eyes, the tremble of his lips, the quiver in his voice as he’d consoled Dean, _‘I’m not going to leave, Dean. I’m right here. No matter what, I’ll always be here, no crying, alright?’_ And the morning after, they never spoke a word about it.

Truth is, Castiel wants to know what this is. But there’s no one to tell him. And he’s too scared to ask himself. 

With a shake of his head, Castiel dismisses his scrambled thoughts and fixes the lid of the container on tight, confining the tempting scent of the apple pie he baked a while ago for Dean, for no reason at all. It's about eight in the morning, which means Dean must have finished with his shower already. Maybe Castiel should knock. Or maybe not. He purses his lips and glances between the wall and the door before deciding to leave the container at Dean's doorstep. It doesn't take him more than a few seconds to do so, and he walks back inside his apartment, a giddy anticipation in his veins, and raps against _their_ wall. 

"Dean?" he calls out, hesitant, hoping he isn't disturbing Dean. 

A few moments pass before Castiel hears the distinct thumping of footsteps on the floor boards, and he falls back against the wall, hands tucked behind him. 

"Heya Cas." 

C _as_.

Castiel doesn't know why Dean insists on calling him so. It is a cute nickname, no doubt, although Castiel doesn't see the problem with his full name. 

"I have a surprise for you," he says. 

"Oh? What is it?" 

Castiel grins, flushing with heat when he catches himself doing so. 

"Check your doorstep." 

"Sure," Dean says, " ~~-~~ give me a moment." 

The sound of muffled thuds follows, and in the distance, Castiel hears a door click open ~~,~~ and shut after a few moments, followed by a delighted chuckle across the wall. 

"No way, did you make this yourself?" Dean asks, and Castiel nods in response, only to remind himself Dean can't see him. 

"Of course, Dean." 

"It looks delicious, Cas. This one's apple, isn't it?" 

"It is." Castiel smiles. 

"I can't wait to dig in, buddy. I mean it, I don't remember the last time someone _baked_ a pie for me. Wait, is it something special today? Am I forgetting something?" 

Castiel laughs at that, and brings his hands to the front to fidget with a nail on his finger. 

"Not really. I just wanted to bake something, brush up on my skills. Thought you'd like it." 

"Dude, I love it. Hold on, I need to grab a fork."

Castiel hears Dean walk away. He returns after a few seconds, and the sound of him settling against the wall echoes through. 

“Hey Cas, you free?” 

“It’s a Saturday, so yes.” 

A brief pause, where Dean hums before speaking. 

“Read me a poem, will ya’, sweetheart?” 

Castiel falters. His face flushes with a burning heat, not for the first time that morning, and he fumbles with his words, unsure how he should reply to Dean’s request. He pushes himself off the wall and turns to stare at it for a short moment, blinking his eyes in disbelief at the ease in Dean’s tone, before mumbling in a low voice. “Which one would you like me to read?” 

“What’s that?” Dean asks. 

“I said,” Castiel clears his throat, “ ~~-~~ which one do you want me to read?” 

“Oh, any’s fine. Just want to hear you.” 

Dean appears to be quite jaunty this morning. Of course, this is no surprise to Castiel, who knows Dean is a naturally buoyant man. 

“Alright, let me go grab a book.” 

“I’ll be right here,” Dean says, and Castiel walks over to his bookshelf in his bedroom, eyes scouring the various paperback books, finger dragging along the spines of a row of books as he purses his lips, narrowing his eyes until his finger stops on a particular book. 

He sucks in a breath and digs the book out of the jam-packed shelf, turning his face away when a puff of dust flows from the book cover. He flips through the browning pages of the book. It's been years since he bought this one. Or did he borrow it from a library and forget to return it? Who knows? 

He walks out his bedroom, making a detour through the kitchen to grab himself a mug of coffee, before knocking against the wall in the living room. 

"Dean? Are you there?" 

"Mhmph-" comes the loud, muffled reply, and a few seconds later, " ~~-~~ sorry, I was eating. So, tell me what book you got." 

Castiel gazes down at the book in his hands. 

"Oh, it's a collection of poems, by Percy Bysshe Shelley." 

"I guess I've heard of him. So, which one are you reading?” 

Castiel breathes in a quick breath, before flipping through the book and landing on a marked page. He doesn’t recall marking it, but the handwriting at the top of the page is evidently his. Strangely, the words read- _‘You’ll come back to this one day, and everything will make sense.’_

Odd. 

With a shake of his head, Castiel clears his throat and continues— 

“It is called Love’s Philosophy.” 

“Hmm,” Dean scoffs. “ ~~-~~ Let’s hear it then. I would _very much_ like to know love’s philosophy.” He chuckles, and a smile pulls at Castiel’s lips before he drifts his eyes down to the fading words. 

_"The fountains mingle with the river, and the rivers with the ocean. The winds of heaven mix forever, with a sweet emotion. Nothing in the world is single,_ _all things by a law divine,_ _in one spirit meet and mingle. Why not I with thine?”_

A pause lingers between them, neither men speaking as the words dissolve into the air, hanging uncertain between them. The verse thrums under Castiel’s skin, and the moment his eyes slip shut, he can only envisage a sound, no, a voice, Dean’s voice. With a soft gasp, he blinks his eyes open, breath shallow as he glances down at the book, at the wall, and back down to the book. 

“S’there more?” 

The very voice that startled him in his thoughts not a moment ago speaks again, and Castiel clutches his hand tight around the book, not bothering to answer Dean as he resumes reading. 

_“See the mountains kiss high heaven, and the waves clasp one another, no sister-flower would be forgiven, if it disdained its brother, and the sunlight clasps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea… what is all this sweet work worth, if…”_

Castiel’s eyes shut. His head falls back against the wall. 

“If?” Dean’s voice, barely audible, floats through the wall, and tugs at an odd warmth inside Castiel, one that scares him, has him knitting his eyebrows together, has him worried, hesitant in ways he’s never found himself to be. 

_“If thou kiss not me?”_

Silence follows his words— a heavy silence, where Castiel has things he wants to say, and he knows Dean must be curious too, and yet, he can’t convince himself to speak. It frightens him for a moment. This bizarre hesitance. Why can’t he say anything? He’s read Dean poems before, various poems, so how is today any different? There’s a sudden, he doesn’t know how to explain it, a sudden _helplessness_ that grips his chest tight, dries his throat, and clouds his mind with hazy thoughts. 

“Castiel I—” 

“Dean I—” 

Both men pause in tandem, caught off-guard by the other’s words. Castiel shuts the book, setting it aside as he leans back, head brushing against the wall as he sucks in a deep breath. 

“Sorry, go ahead,” he urges Dean, who speaks after a moment’s pause. 

“Nothing, uh, I was about to ask you if, uh, if you finished reading the book, erm, I gave you?” 

“Felicity? I did, should I give it back tonight?” 

Dean is quick to respond, his voice hasty, “No, no, no— It’s uh, it’s a gift. Keep it. Something to remember me by when I leave in a few weeks.” 

“Of course,” Castiel says, stiff as he refrains himself from frowning at Dean’s words. “ ~~-~~ How much longer will you be here?” 

A rich laugh drifts across, and Castiel narrows his eyes onto a random tile on the floor, attention focused on Dean as he speaks. 

“Someone’s eager for me to leave.” 

_Hardly_ , Castiel thinks. 

“But, uh, about a month left." Dean chuckles, but it doesn’t sound genuine, it sounds forced. 

And who would know Dean’s laugh better than Castiel? 

"We should meet before you leave," Castiel ventures. 

"Oh, god no." 

"Why not?" 

"I just think it's best if we don't." 

It feels as if an anchor drops within Castiel guts. His face falls and his mind fills with fear, with doubts, with guilt. Why doesn't Dean want to meet him? Is it because he doesn't want Castiel to be a part of his life? And if so, does Dean think of Castiel as a burden? As someone he needs to put up with every day? 

"Why?" Castiel asks softly, not quite expecting Dean to pick up on the words from across the wall, but he does hear it, and is quick to respond. 

"I've told ya’, Cas, it's better this way." 

Dejected, Castiel frowns to himself, "-Alright." 

"It's not a big deal, buddy. You think of me as a friend, and you don't need to see my face for that. We talk, we laugh, we have fun in our own way, right?" 

Castiel forces a stiff smile. 

"Sure." 

"So," Dean begins, pointedly digressing from their conversation, " ~~-~~ what will you do once I leave?" There's mischief in Dean's voice, but in no way or manner does Castiel see the humor in the question, so he sighs and lets his gaze wander out the window. 

"Go back to the way things were. I'm used to being alone on this floor. A few months ago, there was a man who lived across me, but he only had the flat for namesake so he lived there on and off— not that I paid him much heed. I've already told you about the actress that lived in your flat before, and the fourth flat is empty, has been for years." 

"It will be lonely, won't it?" Dean asks. 

"It's not like you’ll do anything about it. Why bother caring if I'm lonely or not?" A bitterness seeps into Castiel's words, quite prominent at that, andDean doesn't respond for a moment. 

"What do you mean _'why bother_ ,'” he finally says. “You're my friend, Castiel, of course I'm going to bother, of course I'm going to give a shit about you." 

There's a rising irritation in Dean's voice, but Castiel reminds himself he's the one who started it and lets it slide. 

"I just… whatever,” he says. “-I don't want to talk about it. There's a month left, and that's enough. What do you think?" 

Dean sighs. "I think it's a long time, a month." 

"Funnily enough, I never felt the one before this pass at all,” Castiel says, a reminiscent tone to his voice. And it's true. One day, it had been mid-October, preparations for Halloween and fall around the corner, and the next moment, he’d woken up to a pleasant December morning. 

"Cas, I told you already, I'm moving. I told you I'm staying here for only a month or two. And I know we have this friendship and it's—" 

Dean pauses, his words laced with helplessness and annoyance, and Castiel regrets ever bringing up the sore subject. 

"I know, Dean, forget about it, I, I... I'm sorry I brought it up. We're looking at the negatives of things, which is not a good habit, let's— let's look at the, the," he fumbles, fiddling with a scraped nail on his finger as his eyebrows shoot up, " ~~-~~ the positives of our situation, alright? We have a month left. Thirty days. That’s a lot. Especially if we make the best of it." 

He concludes with a forced smile, though he can't get himself to mean what he says, despite urging himself to feel happier. 

On the other end of the wall, a heavy sigh floats across, and Castiel frowns a bit. 

"Sure. Hey, uh..." Dean's voice has changed, in the way Castiel knows it does when he's trying to change the topic of their conversation. Castiel braces himself. " ~~-~~ You got some more pie left?" 

With a distant smile, Castiel hums, "-Yes. In the fridge." 

"Mind sendin' some over tonight? Oh, hold on, how about I treat you to hamburgers for dinner? Homemade Winchester hamburgers, loaded with cheese, meat and grease. You'll be mourning your arteries for weeks. Will that cheer you up, sweetheart?" 

Truth be told, Castiel doesn't know what makes him laugh. Maybe it’s how eager Dean is for his pie, or how he speaks about hamburgers, or how he calls Castiel ‘ _sweetheart’_ so easily. All he knows is one moment he's sulking Dean's upcoming departure, the next he's chuckling, head falling back against the wall.

"Oh, Dean. This is exactly why I'll miss you." 

"You'll miss me? That's cute." Dean says, a familiar playfulness in his voice. 

"Shut up." Castiel rolls his eyes, a smile growing across his lips. In moments like these, he's glad Dean can't see him. 

With a sigh, they slip into a comfortable silence, the air around them sweet with laughter, and Castiel wonders if Dean ever thinks of him outside of their daily conversations. If he ever finds himself thinking about Castiel when he's busy writing his therapy reports, or if he ever mentions Castiel to anyone else, or if he, like Castiel, finds himself smiling at the thought of their conversations. 

Maybe not. Who knows? 

"Hey, before we forget, pick out a movie, Cas. We watched Pulp Fiction already, right? And Bohemian Rhapsody last Saturday. What do you want to watch tonight?" 

Castiel considers it for a moment. 

"I'd actually prefer if we didn't watch anything tonight. Maybe we could just talk. About anything you want. Play some music, maybe, is that alright?" 

"Why not? That sounds great. We could play some Zep, grab a few burgers and _just chill_." 

"Or some Paganini." 

"Paga-what?" 

Not for the first time that day or, for that matter, that hour, Castiel rolls his eyes. 

"Niccolò Paganini. He's one of the best violinists of all time. People say he sold his soul to the Devil to play the way he does. He had fingers so long, he could play three octaves at once," Castiel says, and Dean laughs.

“Man, he must be gettin' chicks left, right, and center.” 

Castiel grins, shaking his head at the comment. He glances out the window, the sky a pale blue at the early hours of the day, his voice at ease and languid as he speaks. 

"You should check him out sometime. I mean, I know you aren’t fond of classical music, but for the fun of it, you really need to hear him play." 

A loud hum floats across the room in agreement, before Dean’s voice becomes breezy and he chuckles to himself. 

"So, he's like, the Hendrix of violins?" 

Castiel nods.

"That is quite an apt comparison, yes." 

Dean laughs, tugging a frown at Castiel’s lips, before he speaks up in what Castiel deems is a horrendous English accent. 

"Ah, indeed, indeed, quite apt." 

"Stop making fun of me." Castiel’s words sound whinier than he means them to, and he crosses his arms over his chest. Of course, this isn’t the first time Dean has mocked him for his vocabulary; he’s always saying something along the lines of, ‘ _hey there, Merriam-Webster’_ , or ‘ _top of the morning to you, Sir Oxford’_ , and usually, in an obnoxious English accent. 

"I'm not making fun of you." 

The way Dean says it, in between fits of laughter, only prompts Castiel to roll his eyes harder, and he pouts, huffing at Dean’s words. 

"I don't even speak in a British accent, Dean, it's not that funny." 

"C'mon man, you're like a walking Oxford Dictionary. Seriously." Dean chuckles, and Castiel narrows his eyes, turning back to the wall, as if glaring at a non-living slab of plaster could so conveniently convey his emotions to the other side. 

"Well, at least I don't speak like a truck driver on some abandoned Alabama highway,” Castiel scoffs, dropping his voice lower, and attempting at a drawl as best as he can, _“ ~~-~~ Breaker, breaker, we're going South bound, hammer down."_

The laughter on the other end comes to a staggering halt, and Castiel hopes his point has been made when he hears a heavy sigh. 

"You know part of me hates how true that sounds,” Dean says, “ ~~-~~ but like, part of me also hates _you_ right now." 

Castiel grins, a smug, taunting grin, even though Dean can’t see it. 

"You're not allowed to hate me, _Mister Green_ ,” He teases, and bounces a shoulder, his lips quivering as he refrains a laugh. 

"And why is that?" 

Dean asks, as playful as Castiel. 

"'Cause," Castiel starts, a sly tone edging his voice, " ~~-~~ the pie you want is in _my_ fridge. And more metaphorically, in my hands." 

A loud, mocking gasp travels across the wall, and Castiel presses the back of his palm to his lips to control himself. 

"That's not fair, you're using my weakness against me," comes Dean's loud, clear disdain, and Castiel can almost imagine the frown on his face. 

"Hmm, I doubt that." 

"Okay, you wanna ~~'~~ play dirty? I can play dirty. No more chocolates in your Tupperware, _Blue_." 

Castiel chuckles, unable to keep his laughter in. 

"Bold of you to assume you'll be getting any more Tupperwares henceforth." 

"Fine, fine, I plead guilty. I won't call you an Oxford Dictionary. 'Kay?" 

"Also, I want mint chocolates next time." 

"Mint— really— why don't you just squeeze a bunch of toothpaste in your mouth?" Dean retorts, and Castiel narrows his eyes at the wall. 

"Mint chocolate is for superior tastes only, not that I’d expect _you_ to understand." 

One final, defeated sigh, and Castiel listens to Dean give up. 

"You know what, I surrender. Mint chocolate it is." He laughs for a few seconds, before continuing, "Jeez, I feel like a kid high on dopamine." 

Castiel grins. 

"It's probably just the sugar from the pie." 

"Probably." 

A silence follows their words, and both men simply take a moment to drink in the feeling of laughing with each other. Castiel is right about to speak up, ask about Dean’s plans for the day, when the loud, prominent ringing of Dean's phone travels from the other apartment. 

"Do you have to go?" Castiel asks, voice dropping with desperation. 

"Yeah, it'll be quick, don't worry," Dean says, and his words are followed by the sound of muffled shuffling. 

Castiel sighs, and stretches his legs out, twisting his neck to massage a crick, and he mumbles in a sour voice, "Alright." 

No response meets his words, so he steps forward to continue with his day. But right as he's about to move further, he hears Dean speak, in the softest voice Castiel has heard, "I won't ditch you, Cas, promise." 

Castiel pauses. 

A wide smile lights up his face. 


	7. Chapter 7

_I choose to love you in silence..._

_For in silence I find no rejection._

_—_ _Rumi._

* * *

The last verse to ‘ _Ramble On_ ’ fills Dean's ears, and he sways his head, bouncing his leg under the desk as he smiles, muttering the words to himself. In hasty, unbothered handwriting, Dean scribbles down the date: _Fifth of December_. It's a beautiful Saturday noon; the sun is overheard the glorious city of New York, and although a few buildings obstruct the view of the bright yellow day, a few golden rays filter in through the window above Dean’s desk as he continues writing. 

With a calculative, measured breath, he holds the nib of the pen to the paper, but drops it and slumps back in his chair. The song comes to an end and he pushes his headphones off, setting them down on the desk next to his notebook. 

He’s sure it’ll be a few hours before Castiel wakes up. They were up late the night before, talking about a new documentary that came out on Netflix, and things kept escalating from one topic to another, and before Dean knew it, it was three in the morning. Of course, he's used to not getting enough sleep, it doesn't bother him much, but the way he had to urge Cas to sleep— God, the guy wouldn't stop talking, and Dean wanted him to go on and on, about a constellation he noticed in the sky once, but it was too late at night. He knew the second Castiel walked away, that this man wasn't going to be waking up anytime beyond eleven a.m. the next morning. 

A smile graces Dean's lips at the memory of Castiel. 

It's strange. 

It's strange how Castiel goes from a mature, wise adviser, to a young, giggly man in seconds, or how he always knows when Dean is upset and leaves a few slices of pie, or some grilled bacon sandwiches outside his door for him. Or the fact that he always knows what to say, even if it's harsh, and not what Dean expects. Somehow, Castiel in his life just _fits_. 

And it terrifies Dean. It terrifies Dean because he finds himself torn between wanting to shower the young man with every single ounce of affection the universe could allow him to, and wanting to run away, so far away from Castiel that he'd never see him again. What is even more terrifying, is the fact that Dean even considers either option. He only wants Castiel safe. He wants him happy. And part of Dean knows he'll never be able to keep Castiel happy. 

Castiel deserves blue skies, palm trees, sunsets and walks on the beach. He deserves hot chocolates, and snowflakes and someone to hold him tight when the first snow of winter descends upon them. He deserves picnic baskets, roses, and sweet, gentle kisses. 

_But what can I offer him?_ _Besides a harrowing past, a cloudy present, no sense of direction in life, repressed memories, nightmares, and a broken, miserable piece of myself?_

No. Dean Winchester is a lone, cold winter's night. He doesn't deserve someone as loving as a mellow pink, spring morning. 

With one last glance out the window, Dean picks up his pen and writes in big, bold words that stretch across the page: 

‘ _I'm in love_.’ 

In the solitude of his room, on the pages of a diary, he keeps hidden away from the world, Dean allows himself to exist as he is. The pages of his diary spew only the truth, no lies. A crude, unpolished _Dean_ lives on these pages. And on these pages, he hurts, he envies, he cries, he fails, he stumbles, he loves. 

Frustration rises in his throat in the form of sour bile, and he squinches his eyes shut, rubbing them with exhaustion, before glancing down at the page. With a strong grip, he tears it out. 

The diary slaps shut, discarded along with the headphones, and a single, torn page lies in front of Dean. 

‘ _I'm in love.’_

He grabs his pen and shuts his eyes. He doesn't want to see himself write it, no, he just wants to pen it all down, no matter how cluttered, how ugly, how smudged the page gets. He needs to let it out. 

So, he writes. And writes and writes and writes. Writes until his fingers are numb. Until the page isn't enough. Until he's struggling to find words. 

Ten minutes later, he blinks his eyes open, and the first thing he does is crumple up the paper. 

_On second thought..._

He unfolds the crumple, flattening the page out as he skims his eyes over the scribbles. 

_‘He's the person poets write about, singers sing about, and authors write about. He's every love story I've ever read, every joy to exist in the world. He's the person who'll help you when you fall, the person whom you can find yourself within. When I listen to him speak, I never want him to stop. He could talk about something as mundane as grocery shopping and I wouldn't want to miss a thing he says, or something as intricate as the stars and the galaxies and I still wouldn't want to miss it. He's the person I want by my side when I win, lose, fail, succeed. He's the person I_ —' 

A tinge of embarrassment colors his face red and he cringes, not only because of what he's written, but also because of the way he's written it, bold and capital: 

_‘—_ _I love more than myself. And I'm going to leave him. The only person who’s made me feel alive in a long, long time, and I'm going to lose him in a month. And I'm going to hurt him, and I'm going to hurt myself, but I can't do anything. I wish I could've found him earlier. I wish I had more time.’_

Dean's jaw locks as his eyes linger upon the last words. 

_I wish I had more time._

It's almost childish, what he's written—nowhere in comparison to the sonnets poets write for their beloveds— but Dean knows it is true— what he feels, what he wants to say. He just can't put it into spoken words. He simply can't. He folds the paper in half and pushes his chair back, stepping up to walk out the room. In the kitchen, he grabs his lighter and walks over to the sink. 

_One. Two. Three._

The lighter clicks, and the soft, orange flame it emanates causes Dean's guts to coil. He holds up the folded paper, the one he spilled himself onto, and in a slow, fluid motion, holds the lighter up to the corner of the paper, watching as the flame catches. 

_You're not allowed to have him. You're not allowed to hurt him. You're not allowed to love him, despite the fact that you know, deep within, he loves you back, you can't have him. You don't deserve him_. 

The white paper burns to brown before burning to black, coarse ash, falling into the damp sink, ash dissolving into the beads of water. 

The lighter falls to the counter next to him and the paper drops from his hand into the sink until not a single trace of it, except for the char on the sink wall, remains. That too, dwindles away the moment Dean twists the tap and a stream of water gushes out, sucking down the drain what was once a confession of Dean's love. 

He hates himself in that moment. More than he ever has before. 

Dean sighs and dusts off his hands, wiping them on his trousers before walking into the living room to grab his discarded shirt. It's December already, and sure it's cold outside, but Dean would rather freeze from hypothermia than walk around his house in a shirt. The threadbare, gray shirt lies on the couch, and right as he flings it over his shoulder, a knock raps against the wall. He turns to the sound, nerves trembling with anticipation at the prospect of listening to Castiel's voice. 

"Mornin' sunshine," he teases, leaning against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. 

"Dean," Castiel rasps, his voice hoarse from having just awoken. The need in his voice dries up Dean's throat, and he feels a punch to his gut. 

"Erm, hey, uh, did you just wake up?" 

"Yes..." 

Dean smiles. He loves hearing Castiel speak in the morning or late at night, when his words are easy and languid— like that of a young child. 

"Want me to cook you some brunch?" he asks. 

A considerate silence follows, before Dean hears Castiel hum. 

"'Kay."

"What do you wanna’ eat, sweetheart?" 

"Eggs," A pause. " ~~-~~ Bacon. Do you have bacon?" 

Dean smiles, nodding to himself. 

"Why don't you go freshen up and grab some coffee and I'll get you some bacon and eggs? Yeah?" 

"Yes, please..." Castiel says, voice soft, and Dean grins, pushing himself off the wall as he walks into the kitchen. He scours the fridge and grabs some eggs, whistling as he works, as if everything is the way it's always been, as if he didn’t cry a mere few minutes ago. 

He switches the stove on, grabbing a frying pan and flicking some butter into it. It sizzles as he grabs some salt and pepper and turns back to the stove. There's a bounce in his steps, a flair in his shoulders, and a smile on his face as he chops up some bell peppers. Right as he's about to grab the eggs, his phone rings, and although he tries to ignore it for a moment, the incessant ringing is annoying, so he digs his phone out of his pocket and swipes up without bothering to glance at the caller ID, wedging it between his shoulder and ear. 

"Winchester," he grumbles. 

"Dean, it's me." 

Dean pauses, setting his knife down as he grabs the phone in his hand, eyes throwing a furtive glance at the stove. 

"Sam?" he asks, voice laced with disbelief, a smile growing at his lips. 

"Yeah, it's me." 

"Man, it's been weeks. What's up? How you been?" 

Sam sighs on the other end, and Dean can almost envisage his brother, his shaggy brown hair, the fine lines of the thirties adorning his face, the weary circles under his eyes, a contrast to the face of a young, gleaming boy Dean’s always known him as.

"I'm great, Dean. I’ve missed you, by the way. Mary misses you too." 

Dean's face lights up at the sound of her name. Mary is his four-year-old niece. She's got green eyes, from their mother, Mary, and with the way she clings to Dean when he's around, it's evident _Unca Dee_ is her absolute favorite. 

"God, I miss her too. It's been what, months? Four months? I saw her picture last week. They really do grow them big in the Winchester family line." 

Sam laughs and Dean finds comfort in the familiar sound. He puts the phone on speaker and sets it on a rack above to ensure he can hear clearly. 

"I know, there's a lot to talk about, Dean. But hey, listen I'm calling for a bit of business." 

"Aw, what?" 

"I have good news. And a little bit of bad news." 

Dean quirks his bottom lip in curiosity, but doesn't stop cracking eggs into the pan. 

"Okay, uh, good news first, I guess." 

Sam sucks in a breath, before speaking up, "Dad's house, the one back in Lawrence?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Well," Sam pauses, " ~~-~~ it was supposed to be under renovation until January, right?" 

"Yeah...?" Dean asks, narrowing his eyes in confusion as he sprinkles some salt over the eggs ~~,~~ and reaches for the spatula. 

"It's ready, Dean. A month before the due date. You can move in now, or whenever you want." 

"What?" Dean gasps, eyes gaping as he processes Sam's words.

"Hold on, did we pay them extra, or what? 'Cause that's a pretty big house, Sammy, how the hell did they finish it in a month?" 

Sam chuckles. 

"Exactly, I was surprised too when the manager called. So, you should go check it out, yeah?" 

"Yeah, uh, that sounds great, maybe someday in January. When I give this flat up." 

"Right, about that." At once, Sam's voice dims down ~~,~~ and a certain hesitance laces his words. 

"What about it?" Dean tries to prompt Sam, who has gone strangely quiet. 

"It's just that," Sam sighs, " ~~-~~ the neighbourhood council, Dean, they want you to move in as soon as possible, preferably within two weeks. There's a lot of crap going on government policies, 'cause you know, the establishments are old, the people are old. And they're saying you either utilize the house or give it up for sale." 

Dean pauses and the spatula in his hand drops onto the pan. A drop of oil splatters on his finger, but he's too busy thinking about Sam's words to worry about it. 

"Hold on, that's our private land, right? It's ours— mine, if we're getting technical, so don't they have to approve things with me? I own that place, Sam, they can't just threaten to sell it off—" 

Sam hums in agreement. 

"I know, I know, I'm on your side, man, and it's a good thing they haven't taken it to court‘cause I'd have taken up the case, but all I'm saying is look, it's not like you have anything to do in New York, right? Back in Lawrence you have Bobby's garage, you have people who know you, people you can rely on. And you're a veteran, so double kudos to you. What's the harm in moving in? You have a week or two. And it's closer to California too, Dean." 

_But if I leave here in two weeks, I'm going to have to leave... Cas..._

Enraged, Dean turns away, eyebrows furrowed together as he glares at some speck on the countertop. 

"No, Sam, I have things to do here, I can't just drop everything and leave." 

"Like what?” Sam scoffs, much to Dean’s displeasure, “-Do you have a job? Do you have friends? What?" 

"Well, yes, I have my therapist here, I have a friend, a close friend who lives next to me—" 

"Are you dating someone?" Sam asks, and Dean rolls his eyes at the sheerness of it. 

"No, but what does that have to do with my own choice to move into the house or not?" 

"Dean, I—" Sam sighs, a biting edge to his voice, " ~~-~~ we settled this already, man. Three months. You said you wanted to see New York and I'm sure these two months have been more than enough. You were supposed to move in at the end of December, but now you're moving in a few days early. What's wrong with that? You should be happy that you’ll get to live in your own house, in the _comfort_ of your own house and get to have a job—" 

"Don't lecture me, Sam," Dean admonishes, but Sam persists. 

"I'm not lecturing you, but I am really curious as to why you don't want to move in now. Come on, be honest, is it a woman? Are you dating someone? Are you in love or something—" 

"It’s none of your business, Sam," Dean growls.

A pause follows Dean's words and Dean watches the eggs cook. 

"It is a woman, isn't it?" 

_A woman_. 

_Hardly._

"Sam, I'm going to need you to shut your face for a hot minute. It's not a woman, and it sure as hell ain't love. Am I not allowed to have my own personal reasons for not moving in so soon?" 

On the other end, Dean hears Sam give an annoyed huff, and he rolls his eyes at his brother's stubbornness. 

"You're probably the only person I know who doesn't want to move into his own house. What has New York even done for you? Come back, Dean, please." 

Dean's nerves have been twitchy all day and now he snaps, "-Bold coming from someone who hasn't visited his father _or_ brother back in Lawrence since two-thousand-fifteen." 

_Should not have said that._

Regret washes over him at once, punching him in the gut as the weight of his words settles between them. 

"You want to put this on me? Really? When I'm trying to look out for _you_?" Sam sighs, his voice defeated. 

Dean hates fighting with his brother, especially when they’re talking for the first time in months. 

"Don't get me riled up, Sam. For your best interests." 

It's not too harsh, but a warning all the same. 

"Fine, I'll... I'll send over some documents. Please make it quick, Dean. And if you get calls from the council, let me know. Also, for God's sake, check your goddamn e-mail." 

With that, Sam hangs up, and Dean, now aware of the slight burning smell that rises in the air, turns back to the stove. He grabs the spatula and scrapes the eggs out in time before they char at the bottom. He heaves a sigh of relief and grabs some bacon, oil and seasoning, flicking them into the pan, the hissing sound of the meat cooking, echoing through the kitchen. 

It sounds surreal. He can't leave. Not so out of the blue. Sure, yeah, Sam is right, Dean doesn't have a job— but it's for a reason. He wanted to take a few months off before returning to civilian life. And what does Sam care if he's dating anyone or not? Does he really think anybody would want to date someone with a face like Dean's?

Dean shakes his head, pushing the foul thoughts away as he grabs a container and packs Castiel's brunch. He keeps it a little to the side of Castiel's door, before ringing his bell and dashing inside. Dean hears a door click open then shut. A minute later, there's a knock at the wall. 

"Thanks for the eggs, Dean, it smells really good." 

"Eh, it's nothing compared to the stuff you make for me." 

Dean smiles, and slumps down on the chair against the wall. 

"You free?" he asks. 

"Oh, of course. It’s the weekend." 

Dean quirks his bottom lip in understanding. 

"Yeah, I was worried you wouldn't get enough sleep since we stayed up so late." 

Castiel chuckles, the sound floating in the air between them. "Looking out for me?" he asks. 

A loopy smile pulls at Dean's lips as he mumbles, "Always." 

The sound of a content hum drifts across the room, and Dean fiddles with a loose thread on his trousers to compensate for the silence. ~~~~

"I like Saturdays," Castiel says after a long second.

"Yeah?" 

"Mhm. Better than Sundays. 'Cause you can relax, be unproductive, waste time, and you still get a token day after to make up for being lazy." 

Dean smiles at the sheer randomness of the statement, a warmth unfurling in his chest at the fact that Castiel feels comfortable enough to speak his mind to Dean. 

"You're like a Saturday, Dean."

"What? You calling me a waste of time?" Dean laughs. 

"No," Castiel starts, " ~~-~~ I'm saying, being with you, it's like a Saturday." 

"Oh yeah? Why?" 

"Because it's the best feeling in the world." 

Dean's eyes slip shut. God, he wishes he could just push it down, this— this anticipation, this thrill, this buzz that lingers under his skin when he hears Castiel speak. 

_But I can't have him_. 

Not wanting to prolong the silence between them, and mostly to distract himself, because he knows it's only a matter of a few seconds before he says something he’ll regret, he changes the topic. 

"So, what are you going to do today?" he asks, clearing his throat.

Castiel seems to consider the question with a long, considerate hum. 

"Not much. I'll practice the keys. It's been quite a while since I sat down at my piano. I'll watch a little television, read a page or two. I'm not sure. What about you?" 

Dean shrugs, breaking the thread off his trousers as he answers, “-Eh, nothing much, I've got some documents to go through. Sam called a while ago. Was tellin' me to check my e-mail and stuff— " The sound of his cell phone ringing through the kitchen catches his attention, and he stands up, " ~~-~~ Oh, son of a bitch, let me grab my phone." 

In the distance, Castiel laughs, and Dean smiles as he grabs his phone from the rack he left it on in the kitchen. 

It's Sam again.

 _Huh?_

"Hey," he says as he answers and presses the phone to his ear. 

"Dean, look, I'm sorry for nagging you, but listen, we have to make a decision soon. Either you put the house up for rent or lease, or move in." 

"What?" Dean scoffs. " ~~-~~ Sam, I said I need a moment to think, yeah?" 

"Did you check your e-mail?" Sam asks, rising desperation in his voice. 

"Could you give me a minute to breathe?" 

Sam seems to disregard Dean's taunt, continuing, "-Check it, right now. I sent you the documents in-case you want to move in this month, and there's a few notices from the neighbours, since it's supposed to be a quote-unquote, ‘ _co-operative neighbourhood_.’" 

Dean shakes his head, but puts Sam on speaker and scrolls through his G-mail account, dozens and dozens of unread e-mails filling his phone screen. 

"Man, what? This is bullshit," he groans, rubbing a hand over his face as frustration builds in his veins. 

On the other end, Sam gives a defeated sigh, "-Just... Just go back, Dean. It won't be as bad as you think it is. Besides, half of the neighbours are close to their seventies. Sons of bitches better be dying soon. Good riddance for the neighbourhood." 

Both brothers chuckle at Sam's comment, and Dean's laugh subdues into a wicked grin. 

"That's mean, Sam. But I don't think I disagree." 

After a pause, Sam speaks up again. "So? Think you'll go?" 

"Do I have a choice?" Dean asks, voice heavy as he clicks on a few unread mails from the neighbourhood council, cringing at the sarcastic tone of the text. 

"You do, but it's better if you choose the one that takes you home." 

_Home. As if Dean hasn't found his home right here_. 

"Let me think it over." 

"Alright. Let me know soon, okay?" 

Dean nods to himself. 

"Sure. You uh, take care of yourself, Sammy." 

A slight mischief laces Sam's words, as if he can see right through Dean's hesitance. "You too, Dean." 

And with that, he ends the call. 

_Man, this is so not how I wanted things to go today_. 

"Shit," Dean groans as he pinches the bridge of his nose and rubs his eyes, heaving a deep breath before dropping his phone onto the counter. 

If he has to move back to Lawrence in two weeks, he'll have to repack his things by the end of this week. Not to mention having to book packers and movers to send some of his furniture and items back to Lawrence. The other items he won't need, he could sell them on eBay. He'll have to end his sessions with Missouri, tell her he's moving and worst of all…

He will have to tell Castiel. 

Dean walks into his bedroom, drops onto his bed, and groans loud into his pillow. 

_I can't leave. I don't want to. I can't leave Cas. I can't hurt him._

_But it's better than leading him on with hopes of something more than friendship, only for him to meet me and be disgusted by who I am_. 

He's moving. He has to move. If he wants to keep Castiel happy, he has to move. 

Truth be told, his indecision isn't even about what he'll say. He knows how he'll say he’s leaving early, straight and clear, but what bothers him, has him fidgeting and trembling, is the thought of how Castiel will react. He will be upset, no doubt. But he knows Cas is not someone to lash out at people or show his temper. Rather, he’s reticent, someone who urges people to speak about their feelings, while keeping his own locked away. Dean has rarely heard him open up to him, and the times Dean has tried to urge him, Castiel simply digresses from their subject. He pushes down his anger. That's how Castiel is tuned. 

He’s the complete opposite of Dean. Dean will shout, Dean will hit, punch, knock over things. He blazes with rage, but only for a few minutes or hours. Cas isn't like that. He keeps things inside. He lets them simmer down, but never fade away. Dean has seen this in the few words they spoke about Castiel’s childhood. About his parents. 

Dean has felt this before. The warm, cosy feeling of being in love, of having someone to talk to, someone who will, at times, simply listen. But he’s also felt the harrowing weight of heartbreak, knows what it does to a person. Part of him wants to grab this feeling of comfort, of love, and never let go, no matter where it takes him, but the other? The other part of him wants to shun away all and any feelings of love because he _knows_ , it can only end one way. 

He sighs and rolls over on his bed, his eyes cloudy and head thrumming with an oncoming migraine. 

He has to tell Castiel. But Castiel will be hurt. _So hurt_. 

Then another thought pops into his mind. 

He sits up, rubbing at his eyes.

"What if I just don't tell him?" he says out loud to himself. 

"That way, he'll think I'm a bad person, and he won't like me anymore. That way I can stay without any guilt of having left him heartbroken." 

Now that Dean thinks of it, it does sound marvellous, this new plan of his. 

And it's easy too. He's already carrying so much guilt, what difference will some more make? 

It's settled then. 

Castiel will never know. He won’t know Dean is leaving until Dean is already gone. 

Dean won’t tell him. He simply won't. 


	8. Chapter 8

_You never fall in love by yourself, love captures you. Love comes to you when you don't need it really, and it comes to an end when you need it the most._

_—_ _Farah Mustafa_.

* * *

"Two apple pies to go please," Castiel says, pointing at two slices of freshly-baked apple pie through the glass compartment.

The woman behind the counter tugs the plastic glove further on her hand as she digs inside to retrieve them. Castiel smiles as he shuffles to the cash counter of the bakery and grabs his wallet to pay for the sweets. He was walking back home from the hospital when he was met with the soft aroma of warm, fresh bread and pies, and he followed his nose down to the new bakery across the street from their apartment building. At first, he'd been enraptured by the sesame buns, but the moment one of the workers brought out a tray of tempting little pie slices, Castiel had at once thought of Dean, and of the excitement in his voice if Castiel left pie out for him. 

"Your change," the cashier, a thin, middle-aged woman says, and beams up at Castiel, her eyes falling to the enamel pin on Castiel's black canvas jacket, a pride flag pin, and her smile broadens. 

"My wife's got the same one on a similar jacket," she says, and it takes a moment for Castiel to catch up, narrowing his eyes, realizing she's talking about her wife, which means _—_

"Oh, oh, that's sweet," he says, once his mind clicks into place. She laughs and hands over the paper bag full of goodies to him. Before she can give it to Castiel however, she sticks a little sticker on it, _'have a nice day!_ '

It tugs a smile at Castiel's lips. 

"That's a cute little sticker." 

"Exactly why I put it. Have a nice day, hon," she says, and Castiel nods politely before walking out the glass door. 

As soon as he steps out of the bakery, leaving its warmth behind, he's punched in the face with a gush of cold, sharp air, and he hitches his jacket closer, pressing the paper bag close to him as he takes a sip of the coffee in his other hand. 

A glance at his watch shows him it's half-past seven in the morning, which means Dean won't be up yet. He usually wakes up around eight-thirty, especially when he goes to bed later than usual. Last night Dean went to sleep around four, or at least so Castiel thinks. He went on break at four and Dean, being Dean, called him up, whispering to him about mundane things, like the litter of kittens he passed by that day. 

_"Wish I could've taken 'em’ home, Cas. But Kreschner doesn't allow pets in the flat. And I have an allergy to cat hair, but they were so cute, buddy, and my heart was just hurting 'cause they were meowing at me. I fed ‘em some milk an' all."_

Dean's voice was hoarse from slumber, and it thrummed under Castiel's skin. 

_"Maybe one day I'll get a kitten. I'm just scared they're too sensitive."_

_"Eh, you'll be good with ‘em, I just know."_

_"What makes you think that, Dean?"_

Castiel had asked him, leaning against the window in their breakroom. 

" _S'in general. You're always so careful with things. Always so gentle and soft."_

Castiel's face had flushed pink. 

_"That's a nice thing to say."_

_"You're a nice thing."_

Castiel had laughed at that, answering, voice casual, _"Okay, someone really does need sleep."_

_"Hmm... I want to keep talking to you, sweetheart."_

Dean had been almost too hard to resist, but Castiel urged him to sleep. 

_"Me too, but Dean, I highly advise you to try sleeping. Please? We'll talk tomorrow morning."_

" _I'm not here for a long time, Cas."_

_"Dean—_ _"_

Castiel knew Dean would be leaving in a month. But that was enough time to relish in the memories. Besides, they'd meet each other soon _—_ or at least Castiel hoped they would. 

_"Sorry, uh, you have things to attend to, obviously. I'll try to get some sleep."_ Dean's voice had gone low and guilty, confusing Castiel to say the least, and without any preamble, Dean had hung up.

Come to think of it, Castiel does find it very unlike Dean to have hung up so soon. _Never mind though_ , he reassures himself, _I’ll talk to Dean when he wakes up_. 

As Castiel enters the compound of his apartment building, he finds sitting idle on a bench nearby, Mr. Kreschner, the very man Dean had mentioned this morning, and who originally owned the flats Dean and Castiel live in. 

"Morning, Mr. Kreschner, what are you reading?" Castiel smiles, pausing to regard the elderly man whose childish attitude and optimism never failed to bring a smile to Castiel's face. 

"Oh, just the news." 

"And how is it going?" Castiel follows up. He's found being friends with Mr. Kreschner does put him at a bit of an advantage when he's got issues with the rent. 

"Horrible, as always." 

Castiel laughs, and Mr. Kreschner continues, "You back from work?" 

"Oh, yes, just now." 

Mr. Kreschner hums, and quirks his bottom lip, an impressed glint in his eyes, "I wonder how you pull it off, boy. Me, I can't live a day without my good night's sleep. I get all grumbly if I don't get sleep." 

Castiel smiles, nodding along to the elderly man's words, "-Oh, I know. I make up for it in the morning, though." 

"S'good. So, whatcha' got there?" 

Mr. Kreschner gestures to the paper bag in Castiel's hands. 

"Oh, it's just some coffee, and some pie. Dean, my friend, he loves pie. Besides, I thought I'd check out the new bakery." 

Mr. Kreschner nods, before his eyes twinkle with realization. 

"Dean? The veteran from my flat?" 

"Yes, of course. Dean," Castiel says, and his smile widens at the mention of Dean's name. 

"Ah, I got his notice to vacate last night. I wonder where he'll be moving." 

"Oh, he's moving back to Lawrence, his hometown. It's still hard for me to think about it, but I'm glad we have a month left at the most." 

"A month?” Mr. Kreschner asks, his voice laced with disbelief. 

"Yes, he's moving out around the end of December. Isn't he?" Castiel asks in return, tightening his grip on the paper bag. 

"He ain't moving out in a month _—_ He's moving out next Saturday. In a week." 

Castiel laughs. _Poor Kreschner_. Old age must be giving way to a lot of confusion for him these days. He regards the elderly man with an almost pitiful expression. 

"No, Mr. Kreschner. Dean's moving out at the end of the month, not this week. If he was moving out sooner, he'd tell me. Did you read the letter right?" 

"Boy," Mr. Kreschner starts, " ~~-~~ are you doubting me? I ain't eighty yet, my ears work, my eyes work. He called me too, told me he was movin' out sooner than before. You can read the notice if you want. It's the seventh of December today, right? Means he's leaving in… six days. On the thirteenth." 

Castiel scoffs, eyes wandering down to the ground as he shakes his head. 

"No, Mr. Kreschner, it must be the _thirtieth_." 

"You callin' me a liar?" 

"No, I'm simply saying that _—_ " 

"Why don't you go ask that friend of yours? Maybe he told you wrong. 'Cause he was real firm when he told me the date last night." 

Castiel falters at the man's words. 

_No, it can't be. Dean can't leave so soon. And even if he was, he'd tell me because we’re—_

_What are we?_

"I… I'll see you later, Mr. Kreschner." 

"Sure," Mr. Kreschner says, grumbling to himself, " ~~-~~ and you ask that Winchester boy about the date." 

As Castiel walks up the stairs to his apartment, his mind races with confusion. Maybe Mr. Kreschner read the dates wrong. Maybe he didn't. Maybe Dean _is_ leaving soon. But if Dean is leaving soon, and in a week for that matter, why would he not tell Castiel? 

Castiel needs to ask Dean. He needs answers. And there's only one person who can give them. Dean himself. 

The key twists in the keyhole, and Castiel pushes his door open, kicking his boots off as he shuts the door behind him and heads over to the kitchen to set the paper bag down. He massages a crick in his neck, before breathing in a deep breath and glancing over to the wall he shares with Dean. Dean, who he knows so little about, and yet so much about. 

_Is he really leaving in a week?_

Castiel still doesn't know how to handle the fact that Dean will be leaving in a month, but the prospect of him leaving in a week? Castiel can't even begin to imagine what he'd feel, much less do. Part of him hopes Dean will laugh at the prospect, telling Castiel he's being paranoid, and that Kreschner must have read the dates wrong. Part of him worries about the possibility of Dean accepting the accusation. 

As Castiel changes into his sweats in his bedroom, the itch to ask Dean troubles him all the while, and he tries pushing the thought away, instead focusing on the present, on what he can do with Dean today, but his thoughts keep returning to plague him. 

It isn't until he's in the kitchen, grabbing a water bottle before slipping into bed, that he hears a knock on the wall _—_ a soft, hesitant knock _—_ and his stomach leaps with anticipation as he makes his way over to the wall, tucking his hands behind his back as he sighs. 

"Dean," he states, heart leaping at the sound of Dean's voice after so many hours apart. 

"Mornin' sweetheart. How was work?" 

"Great. I mean, the usual. Listen I _—_ " Castiel sucks in a hesitant breath, before continuing, " ~~-~~ I wanted to ask you something." 

"Sure, uh, go ahead," Dean says. 

"When are you leaving?" 

"I'm surprised you forgot," Dean laughs, but it doesn't sound genuine ~~,~~ " ~~-~~ I'm leaving on the thirtieth, Cas." 

"Thirtieth? Really?" 

Dean pauses, and Castiel finds the hesitancy in Dean's voice slightly suspicious. Something about the way Dean replies, "Yeah, of course," doesn't settle right with him. 

"So, you're not leaving on the thirteenth? Which is in a week?" 

A heavy silence follows Castiel's query, and for a single moment, Castiel can do nothing but shut his eyes. 

The silence is answer enough. 

"W-why would you think I'm moving in a week?" Dean asks, but his voice is weak as if he's been caught doing something wrong. 

"I met Mr. Kreschner downstairs. He told me." Castiel pauses, disbelief still lingering in his mind, before he asks, " ~~-~~ Dean, is it, is it true?" 

Another long silence, and it confirms Castiel's fear. A certain weight settles on Castiel’s shoulders, and he slumps down against the wall, stunned for a moment, completely silent. 

Dean is leaving. Not in a month. In six, small days. 

“It’s… It’s true,” Dean admits. 

A cynical laugh slips past Castiel’s lips. 

“And I was supposed to know... when? After you were gone?” 

“Cas _—_ ” 

“Kreschner said you gave him the notice last night. How long have you known?” 

Castiel’s thoughts race. His heart beat fasters. His lips tremble, and he rubs his broad palms over his face in an attempt to calm himself down.

Dean didn’t tell him. Dean lied to him. Dean isn’t supposed to lie to him. Dean is his friend.

Friends don’t lie. 

“Why didn’t you tell me, Dean? It’s a simple question.” 

“Don’t be mad at me, Cas, I was just trying to _—_ ” 

Dean starts, but Castiel doesn’t let him finish. To Castiel, Dean’s voice is muffled. His words are nothing but excuses, and his chest aches with the realization of Dean _hiding_ things from him, lying to him, _leaving_ him. 

“I thought you were leaving on the thirtieth, Dean. I _—_ I don’t understand why you’re leaving early?” 

Castiel refrains from pacing across the room for he knows it will be harder to hear Dean if he walks away from their wall. 

“Things came up, Cas. The house I was supposed to move back to, dad’s house, the renovation wrapped up way sooner than expected. Sam called me on Sunday, said I had to move in as soon as I could or there’d be problems with the neighborhood council and whatnot. I didn’t have a choice.” 

It’s not like Dean would lie to him, especially about something as serious as this, and Castiel stands by that. He only feels a bit startled by the fact that all of this occurred in the span of a few days, and somehow, he ended up being the _last_ person to know. 

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asks, and his voice rises higher with seething anger. 

“I was going to tell you eventually _—_ ” 

“It’s an easy question, Dean, why didn’t you tell me? You’re leaving. In a week. And you’ve known for a day, or two, I guess. And you were supposed to tell me as soon as you could, because you know how much it would hurt me _—_ and still hurts me _—_ when I think of you leaving.” 

Castiel doesn’t mean for his voice to go so soft, but he can't help it. 

“Will you listen to me? For god’s sake?” Dean heaves a loud sigh ~~,~~ “ ~~-~~ I only found out a few days ago, alright? And I didn’t want to tell you ‘cause I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want you to feel upset, I _—_ I thought if you didn’t know, we could spend this last week just the way things are, y’know, without you worrying about me leaving.” 

“Right, because leaving me, without giving me a single clue as to _when_ you’re actually leaving, would stop me from being upset, wow, _wow_ , you _—_ ” Castiel swallows thickly, struggling to keep his voice high, “ ~~-~~ are unbelievable.” 

“Cas, I didn’t mean to hurt you, please _—_ ” 

Castiel squeezes his eyes shut, exhaustion burning the rim of his eyes. He needs sleep; he needs sleep or else he’ll end up saying things to Dean that he’ll regret, and at this point, he doesn’t need things to become worse than they are. He just wants to sleep. Wants to be wrapped in the warmth of a blanket. In the warmth of his bed. He doesn’t want to argue, even though he knows eventually, he will have to talk to Dean about this, but right now, he’s too tired to do so. 

“I _—_ I don’t want to talk right now.” 

With that, he stands, pressing a hand to the wall to help him up, dismissing Dean’s distressed calls of his name from across the wall. His phone rings in the kitchen, but he doesn’t pay any heed to it. He drags his heavy feet to his bedroom and flings his comforter over and buries himself in the heat of it, grabbing a long pillow to drape his arms over. 

Dean is leaving. Castiel’s friend _—_ his only friend _—_ and he’s leaving. In six days. That’s it.

He didn’t feel months pass by with Dean by his side, how can he expect to appreciate these six _small_ days for all they can be? And it’s not just the fact that Dean is his friend, it’s the fact that Castiel feels something different for Dean, something stronger, so much more than a friend should. 

And Dean? Dean doesn’t even care. No, he doesn’t have a single clue. But that doesn’t mean Castiel is going to tell him. Because the moment he tells Dean what he’s feeling, he’ll just make it worse. He’ll ruin the friendship he already has with Dean and he’ll make it painful and awkward for them both, more so for him, since he’s the idiot who is in love with a man he’s never seen, never met, only heard, only _felt_. 

He rolls over in his bed, grabs a pillow, and groans into it. 

He loves Dean. He loves Dean, and he hates that he loves Dean, because he's never seen him, nor has he met him.

Dean doesn't even feel the same way towards him. _Why would he?_ He's smart, he's wise, he knows not to get too attached to people who will be gone soon. 

Alone and tired in his bed, Castiel wants nothing more than to be held. To be loved. 

His eyes prickle with a sheen of tears, and although he isn't one to tear up at such minor inconveniences, the fatigue from his work seeps into his emotions, and before he knows it, the pillow cover under his cheek is damp with tears, and soft hiccups rise at the back of his throat. 

There's nothing more to it, actually. It's easy to say, much easier to understand. Castiel is in love. For what seems like the first time in his life, he's in love with someone, and it feels _phenomenal_. 

Or at least it did, until Dean decided to move away so soon. Castiel is in love with someone who doesn't love him back, easy as that. They're friends, best of friends, but, sadly, that's all they are _—_ ever will be. 

It isn't even the notion of Dean leaving that saddens him. It's the fear of never hearing from Dean again, never hearing his laugh, never hearing him crack his lame jokes, never sharing his deepest thoughts with Dean in the late hours of the night when their voices have dwindled into hushed whispers, never having someone to cook for, to read poems to again. 

There won't be anyone like Dean ever again. His presence in Castiel's life, fitting in so seamlessly, has rendered him irreplaceable. And the hole his departure will leave in Castiel's heart? In his life? _Unfathomably big_. 

Funny how the universe works. How it plants people in your life who make you feel invincible, only to uproot them when you need them the most. 

The first trace of a slumber lulling him clouds his thoughts, and he yawns, shutting his eyes. 

_Green eyes_. 

Dean said he had green eyes. 

Castiel wakes with a jolt, a shudder wracking his body as he sits up in bed. Before he knows it, he's flinging the comforter off his legs, hopping off the bed, and dashing into the living room. 

He bangs his fist against the wall he shares with Dean, eyes frigid as they fix onto a mundane part of the wall. 

Exactly four seconds later, Castiel hears someone shuffle into the room across the wall. 

"Cas," Dean gasps, and his voice is laced with prominent relief. 

"I want to see you." 

"What?" 

"I said," Castiel says, gritting his teeth, " ~~-~~ I want to see you. Please. Now." 

Silence follows his words, and Castiel suppresses the sob rising in his throat, wiping his damp cheeks on the back of his palm. 

"Cas..." 

The word is a plea, and Castiel shuts his eyes, letting his head fall against the wall as he digs his nails into the plaster. 

"Please." 

It bothers Castiel, how helpless he sounds, and yet, he persists, standing his ground. All the while Dean mumbles his name over and over again, as if it would bestow salvation upon him. 

"I can't do that," Dean says after a pause, and although the answer doesn't surprise Castiel, it prompts another tear to slip down his face. 

"Why not?" 

His lips tremble, his words quiver, and his heart beats faster in his chest. 

"Because... Because I can't. I can't let you see me. You'd only hate me, Cas, trust me _—_ " 

Castiel clenches the fabric of his trouser in his hands, refraining a groan. 

"Why do you think I'd hate you? Dean, you mean so much to m-me, h-how could I hate, how could I hate you?" 

"Hey, are you crying?" 

Flustered at being caught, Castiel shakes his head, rubbing his face on his sleeve as he clears his throat, and steadies his breath. 

"N-no." 

"God, you are, aren't you? Hey, I'm so sorry, I never thought it would hurt you so much _—_ " 

"You," Castiel grits out, " ~~-~~ are unbelievable. Am I that bad of a friend? You really think it wouldn't hurt me if you were to leave in a week?" 

"No, it's just that I _—_ " 

"And you won't even meet me? Why not? I've always tried to be respectful of you, I've always tried so hard to, to respect your space, and I've tried so, so hard to be a good friend. Now that you're leaving, won't you meet me, not even once?" 

Dean doesn't answer him, only spurring Castiel's tears on, and he presses a hand to the wall, face damp and skin feverish. 

"Just a single glance, Dean. A single look." 

When silence follows his question, Castiel huffs a loud sigh, eyes watering once again, as he bangs on the wall. 

"Damn it, Dean, why do you have to make everything so complicated?" he asks, eyes wide and breath shallow. 

"I'm not trying to complicate things, okay? I'm trying to make them easier for us. If you don't meet me, you'll forget about me sooner. And if you forget about me sooner, you'll be happier sooner." Dean’s voice is agitated, but that is all Castiel knows. 

"And why would I want to forget you?" 

"Why would you want to remember me?" 

"Because I _—_ " Castiel pauses, eyes burning with tears as he clamps his hands over his face, burying it in the warmth of his palms as a soft hiccup rises at the back of his throat. 

This is exactly why Castiel hates crying. Because it always puts him in a tight spot, always makes him mumble, shout, and say things he isn't supposed to. 

"Because you what?" Dean asks, but Castiel only sighs. He shakes his head, dismissing Dean's voice, and his eyes go numb. The tears stop, and he wipes away the ones already spilt. 

"Nothing. It's not like you'd care anyway," Castiel says, loud enough for Dean to hear and keep in mind, and with that, he turns on his foot and leans back against the wall. 

"Cas, I _—_ " 

"Will you meet me? Face to face? Before you leave?" He asks, one last time, expecting Dean's reluctance, but needing to make sure for himself. 

"I told you I can't, _Castiel_." 

"You can, Dean. You can, alright? You just _won't_." 

The bitterness Castiel has been trying so hard to refrain from seeps into his voice, making him sound indifferent and cocky, but he finds it too hard to care. 

"I need you to understand my side, Cas." 

"And I'm trying. But what's your excuse? You _can't_ meet me.” 

“Sweetheart, I’m telling you _—_ ” 

“Don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me that.” 

Dean goes silent. Castiel allows his eyes to flutter open, and they land upon the open window, where the cold December breeze floats inside, the sky a dull gray now _—_ _a_ mirror of Castiel’s feelings. 

“We still have a few days left. We can make the most of it.” 

“It’s different, Dean. Okay? It’s different. You don’t it changes anything, since you’ve known all along, you’d be leaving, and now you’re just leaving sooner, but it changes everything for me. And you know what? I blame myself too. I let myself get so swept away in _—_ in _—_ in this feeling. I felt cared for. Understood. Validated. L-loved. And now you’re going to take it all away from me.” 

Castiel’s voice is broken, pathetic, repulsive to himself. He wonders if Dean is as distraught as him. If he feels a weight inside his chest, if he finds it hard to keep himself composed, if he finds it hard to think straight. There is one thing Castiel admires about himself, and it is his ability to string himself together, even in times where his mind is screaming at him to break apart. And yet, it startles him how easily Dean can break through his precariously built walls of self-control. 

“What makes you think I’m not hurt, huh? That I didn’t try to do everything I could about this? If I could stay, I would stay. Castiel, if I had to choose between you and everything else, you know I’d always choose you. You know damn well, what I feel,” Dean pauses, “-what’s between us. And it’s pathetic, that we both know what we want, what we need, but neither of us are making a damn effort to get it.” 

The exasperation in Dean’s voice is heavy, prominent, and it dominates over the slight trace of concern. 

Dean’s brash words only spur the ache at the back of Castiel’s mind, and he drops down to the floor, a vivid memory washing over his thoughts, from one of their earlier conversations a few months ago. 

_"Eh, trust me, you do not want to see my face."_

_"I'm not hot. Although I used to be."_

_"Trust me, Blue."_

_"Eh, I don't want to talk about it."_

_"Maybe I'll tell you some day in the future."_

Castiel heaves a deep sigh, the silence between them thick, uncertain. Painful. 

“You said you’d tell me why.” 

“What?” Dean’s voice is softer now. 

“Why you don’t want to meet me.” 

A pause. 

“‘Cause I’m _—_ I’m not worth it, Cas.” A hiccup accompanies Dean’s words, muffled when it drifts across the wall, but Castiel hears it in the utter silence between them.

“I’m not worth what you feel for me. I can hear _it_ , y’know. Every time you talk to me. It’s always there in your voice, and god, I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t make my heart break. ‘Cause I hear you, and there’s so much hope in your voice. So much _—_ ” He sucks in a loud breath, “ _—_ so much love, and I can’t begin to tell you how unworthy I am of it. I can’t make you happy, Cas, trust me. I can’t give you what you need. You want someone who can help you up when you fall, and Cas, I _—_ I _—_ I can’t even pick _myself_ up if I fall.” 

_Dean knows. Dean knows I love him. And he feels sorry for me_. 

Bile rises in Castiel’s throat at the notion of Dean _pitying_ him, of Dean thinking he’s a pathetic, sick, love-struck young child who doesn’t know what he wants. Dean doesn’t care for him _—_ no, he’s simply been tolerating Castiel. That’s what Dean has been doing all this time. 

“If you just gave me a chance to _—_ ” Castiel starts. 

“I can’t. There’s no time.” 

A single tear rolls down Castiel’s face. 

“Just forget about this, Cas. Let’s go back to the way we were a month ago, okay?” 

“We can’t.” 

“Why not?” 

_Because a month ago, I didn’t know what love was. Now I do_. 

Dean simply sighs. 

“Give it a while, Castiel, you’ll be forgetting all about me.” 

Now _this_ , this pierces something deep inside Castiel, and the pain in his heart dissipates into anger, as he locks his jaw and glares at the wall. 

“Fine. Fine. You want me to forget you, right? I won't wait for you to leave; I'll start right away." 

At once, Castiel is picking up his feet and walking into the bedroom, and this time, he slams the door shut behind him, making sure Dean's confused yells and pleas of ‘ _Cas, don't do this,’,_ _‘Cas, talk to me, sweetheart_ ,’ and _‘Buddy, don't leave me,_ ’ don't linger in the air inside the room. 

Inside his room, Castiel doubles over, eyes stinging with tears as he clamps a hand over his mouth, violent tears streaming down his face as he sobs, head falling back against the wall as he sucks in quick, shallow breaths to suppress his sobs, hands wrapped around his stomach. 

_What did I ask him?_

_Just a single glimpse of his face._

_And what did Dean do?_

_Push me away_. 

As he looks up, swiping a few tears away on the back of his palm, he feels a sudden surge of pain in the back of his head. Sleep has drained from the entirety of his being, leaving him fatigued and hazy, and he staggers over to his bookshelf, hand reaching out to support himself as he walks. Teary eyes regard the bookshelf, and absently, he finds his fingers tracing along the spine of a row of books, only stopping when it reaches one particular book. He hooks his fingers around the spine of the book and digs it out of the shelf, grazing his hand over the front. 

_Felicity by Mary Oliver._

He flings the book onto his bed, slips under the covers and flips the book open, setting it down against his lap as he reads. He hasn't even made it past the first page when a tear falls against the page. Followed by another and another. He shuts the book, flings it across the room in a fit of rage, and buries his face against his pillow. 

_Screw Dean_. Who needs him anyway? All he does is feel sorry for Castiel and wallow in his insecurities, even when Castiel is willing to accept him the way he is, nothing more. Castiel has been managing himself, all alone, before Dean stepped into his life. What difference will it make if he leaves? _Whatever_. Castiel is not going to talk to him. He doesn't care about Dean. He doesn't want to talk to him. 

Tears fall onto the pillow, one, two, three, until Castiel can’t feel his face anymore. 

_Dean Winchester can go to hell_. 


	9. Chapter 9

_If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than because he was he, and I was I._

_—_ _Michel de Montaigne._

* * *

Five days. 

It's been five days since Dean last heard from Cas. 

_“Fine. Fine. You want me to forget you, right? I won't wait for you to leave; I'll start right away."_

Those words, then the loud slam of a door in the distance, and ever since, not a single word had been exchanged between them. Not a single text, not a call, nothing. 

And goddamn, it hurts. It hurts more than Dean would ever admit. 

He tried _—_ it's not like he didn't. He knocked on the wall each day. He called out to Castiel, tried sending him pictures, tried to go back to the way they were a month ago. 

But they couldn't. Castiel wouldn’t respond. 

And each night that week, Dean fell asleep, eyes teary and passive, and only one name on his lips. _Cas._

Castiel wanted to see him. That's all Castiel asked for. _To see him_. And Dean couldn't even do that. 

Sitting in a corner in his room, since all his furniture was packed up and transported a few days ago, his phone in his hands, thumb hovering over Castiel's number, Dean glances at the time on the screen. It's already past eleven at night. It's a Saturday, which means Castiel doesn't have work, but it's also Dean's _last_ Saturday. When morning comes, he'll be leaving. He wants to speak to Castiel, he _needs_ to speak to him. He doesn't believe he can go another moment _not_ speaking to him. 

Giving into his temptation, Dean presses the number, and puts the call on speaker. 

It rings and rings and rings. 

No one picks up. It goes straight to voicemail. 

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice... a mail." 

The automated message used to amuse Dean, now it only spurs his frustration, and he groans, watching as the call ends and his phone goes black. His eyes skim over the bare, empty room, over the corners where his desk would be, where his chair would be against the wall, the one he'd sit on and talk to Castiel for hours. 

Dean envies the apartment. How it can detach itself from a person so easily. What once was Dean's sanctuary is now nothing but the bare confines of four walls and floor. 

Having nothing else to do, Dean stands up and walks over to the wall he shares with Castiel. He knocks. 

No response. 

Upon being greeted by silence, he shakes his head and walks into his bedroom, digging into his duffle bag for a t-shirt. He pulls it on and stuffs his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants. He grabs a hooded jacket, grabs the keys to his apartment, walks out, and shuts the front door behind him. A shaky breath slips past his lips as he glances at the door next to his own. 

He needs to clear his mind. And a walk will do just that. 

Part of him wishes he could haul the door down, walk into Castiel's apartment, and wrap his arms around Castiel, whoever he may be, however he may look. Dean doesn't care if he's short or tall, fat or thin, dark or fair, whatever. He needs Castiel. He needs his voice, soothing him like a candle in the dark, like the North Star to a lost traveler, like the river to his forest. 

Part of him knows better. Part of him knows it's best if they never meet. Besides, Castiel doesn't appear to be inclined towards speaking to him anymore. Not that Dean blames him. Truth be told, Dean wants to see Castiel just as much as Castiel wants to see him, but he knows it would only complicate whatever is between them. 

He opts for the stairs over the elevator, and jogs down, slipping into the jacket and pulling the hood on to hide his face. The night-duty guard tips his head at Dean, and Dean sends him a brief smile before walking out the back of the building, and into the garden with the jogger's track. Wide expanses of green meet Dean eyes, and a soft wind howls through the bare branches, making them sway back and forth. The grass under him is a bit slippery, so he decides to stroll for a while. 

Dean is going to miss this. Miss the buzz of a city, the noise of the people and the cars, even at the most reclusive times in the night. He will miss the chill in the air, the mingled aromas of spices and smoke lingering in the air, and Dean breathes out a staggering breath. A glance forward shows him the garden is empty, save for a man sitting near a tree, clad in a bright yellow cardigan, his head resting against the tree, earphones plugged in. 

He ignores him, and picks up his feet as he begins to walk. He's thankful for the momentary distraction, but his mind still wanders back to Castiel. 

Cas, with his stupid, little quotes that somehow always unfurl a warmth within Dean's chest. Cas, with his Tupperware containers, always labeled with little notes and smiley faces. Cas, with his cute, nervous voice when Dean asks him to read a poem. Cas, with his books, his endless chatter about violins and music, and his love for art. Cas, who manages to dismantle the wall Dean built within him, brick-by-brick, with every word, with every laugh, and creeps into every fiber of his being, who now, is a part of Dean's existence. 

Cas, whose heart he will break when he leaves tomorrow. 

Dean groans and doubles over, pressing his palm into his knees as a tear slips down his face, over the thick, jagged scar under his eye, and down his chin. A sob shakes his body, and he squeezes his eyes tight, wringing another stream of tears down his face, chest heaving with a shaky breath. 

His steps falter, and he feels his chest constrict, breath restricted as he grabs hold of the trunk of a tree next to him, and leans back against it, lips trembling with each sob that wracks his body. 

_No, no, no, men don't cry. Men don't cry, men don't cry, men don't cry, men don't_ _—_ _oh, screw it_. 

He brings a hand up on instinct, rubbing his eyes as they spill more tears. 

_I don't want to_ _leave Castiel. I can't leave him. I can't._

The silhouette of a man floats closer, and Dean notes his shadow grow larger from the corner of his eye, and at last, a hand settles over his shoulder in a fleeting touch. 

"Excuse me?" 

Dean's heart ceases to beat. 

_It can't be._

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you, you just seemed quite distressed which is why I thought you might need some help." 

_Castiel. It has to be._

Not a single coherent thought strings together in Dean’s mind, his throat dries, and eyes widen, hand falls to his side, and he stumbles back as he glances up at the man. 

Round, blue eyes peer up at him, soft plush lips parted with uncertainty, and messy black hair swaying in the breeze greets Dean. Unable to swallow the lump in his throat, Dean finds himself speechless as he stares at the man in front of him. 

_This can't be Castiel. This can't be Castiel. This can't be Castiel. This can't be_ _—_

"It's alright, I won't bite." 

The man smiles and steps forward, and at once, Dean's eyes drop to where the man's soft, pink lips curl into a grin. He allows himself the smallest luxury of drinking in the man’s form, his cardigan snug on his broad shoulders, his black denim jeans hugging his lean thighs, and his phone and earphones clutched tightly in his hand. By all means, Castiel, _if this is Castiel,_ is a handsome, young man, glowing with a radiance enough to outshine the moon above them. 

"I'm Castiel. And you?" 

The murmurs of the wind, the screeching of tires on the road, the faint chatter, the beeping horns in the distance _—_ everything fades into white noise as Dean stares, unable to tear his eyes off the man _—_ _no, Castiel, this is Castiel_ _—_ Castiel's face. 

So, this is Castiel. 

This is the man Dean has fallen for, body, soul and mind. 

And he is _gorgeous._

"Are you alright?" 

Without the obstruction of a wall muffling his voice, Castiel's voice is clearer, much deeper, and it reminds Dean of a glass of neat whiskey. 

Castiel's hand settles once again on Dean's shoulder, and at this point, with Castiel so close to him, the realization has sunk deep into his bones. He had always wanted his first glimpse of Castiel to be monumental, but nothing, nothing can top this. 

Slowly, Dean pushes the hood on his head back, rising up taller over Castiel, as he flexes his back, and Castiel takes a staggering step back, his eyes wide as they notably linger over the long, thick scar running across Dean's face, and his breath hitches as he meets Dean's eyes. Dean sees a conflict within his eyes, for a fleeting moment, before he composes himself with a steady breath. 

"I... Do I know you?" Castiel asks as if caught awestruck, and Dean's lips turn up in a small, hesitant smile. 

_Moment of truth._

"‘Course you do, sweetheart." 

It's comical, really, how Castiel's eyes widen, how his mouth hangs open, how Dean can see the gears shifting in his brain. His chest heaves with deep breaths, and his eyes study Dean's face, dropping down momentarily to rake over his body before drifting back up, and a single, hoarse word escapes his lips. 

_"Dean?"_

Dean only smiles in answer. 

There is something so inscrutable about the expression on Castiel's face, as if he's at odds with himself. Part of him, still in awe, wants to smile, Dean can see that, but part of him, still coherent, knows where they stand, knows how things have been between them, and it restrains Castiel from smiling. He's angry, yes, but there is affection lacing his emotions, and God, it's almost too easy to see the adoration in his round, blue eyes.

The same blue eyes Dean has dreamt about in so many different ways. 

After what seems like an eternity passes between them, Castiel speaks, taking a hesitant step forward, closer to Dean, and the intimacy between them lights Dean's nerves on fire. 

"I can't believe it. Of all the people..." 

"Isn't this what you wanted? To see me?" Dean asks. 

Castiel's eyes soften. 

"Are you here to see me out of pity or...?" 

_Pity?_

Dean staggers a step back, as if repulsed by the very notion of Castiel’s words. 

"No, Cas, I didn't know you'd be here." 

Castiel’s face remains unreadable for a moment before he gives a soft smile and looks away, towards the garden behind Dean, and it allows Dean a free moment to drink in the sight of Castiel's face _—_ glowing with youthful exuberance, before Castiel is turning back to Dean. 

"I come here to check on the kittens sometimes.” Hesitance bleeds through his voice, no matter how confident Castiel assures himself he sounds, and part of Dean is relieved at being on the same page as him. “-They're in the back, hiding near a tree." 

"I came for a walk.” Dean admits, “-Needed to take my mind off of things." 

It's as if Castiel realizes _he_ is the thing Dean needs to take his mind off because he averts his gaze with slight regret. 

"Oh," is all he says before silence descends upon them. 

A few moments linger between them, absolutely still, before Dean suggests, rather boldly, “-would you like to walk with me?”

"I'd like that." Castiel smiles, and Dean turns, his shoulder pressed to Castiel’s in the lightest touch, eyes averted, and cheeks heated. All at once, Dean feels like a young boy standing in front of his high-school crush, speechless and awestruck. 

A chill tarries in the air around them, of the cool December night, a miserable reminder of Dean's impending departure in the morning. As they walk, a silent, mutual understanding flourishes between them, one where Dean knows Castiel has things to say, and Castiel knows Dean has things to say. And yet, neither speaks. Their fingers brush against each other, only for Dean to jerk his hand away at the sparks thrumming under his skin. Castiel mumbles an apology with a blush on his face, and Dean wonders if his face appears as red as well. 

"You didn't answer my calls." 

It's a vague statement, Dean knows. It could be his calls from across the wall, or it could be his phone calls, but Dean doesn't find it in himself to want to elaborate. 

"I didn't know what I'd say." 

Castiel's voice is soft, genuine, and it tugs at something deep inside Dean's chest. 

"You could've said anything. You could've shouted at me. Over and over again. As long as I got to hear you, I wouldn't have cared." 

It's the most Dean has said to Castiel since they've met in person, and Castiel stays silent for a long second before responding. 

"I said what I had to." 

"You never let me apologize." 

"Would your apology change the circumstances we've landed ourselves in?" 

"No." 

Castiel doesn't say anything then, letting Dean's word hang in the air as an explanation in itself. 

"What time are you leaving?" he asks after a beat, and Dean notices he has stopped walking. Dean pauses and turns back to him, their eyes meeting for a brief second before Castiel looks away, trying pointedly to refrain himself from meeting Dean's eyes. 

"Eleven in the morning.” 

"So that's all I have? Twelve hours?" 

It's the dejection in Castiel's voice that gets to Dean.

The utter defeat, the helplessness. This isn't Castiel. If there is something Dean has learnt in the two months he spent with Cas, it is the fact that Castiel is someone who will always keep smiling, keep fighting, keep being optimistic, even when the weight of the world is caving him in. Through the exhaustion of work, or the harrowing incidents with his family, Castiel never loses hope. And to hear someone as optimistic as Castiel sound so dismal only has Dean aching with guilt. 

"Twelve hours is a lot, Cas." 

"Not for me. Not for us." 

In a brazen show of assurance, Dean steps forward and laces his fingers through Castiel's. The action has Castiel fluttering his round, expectant eyes up to Dean's, and his lips turn down in a soft frown. 

"Even if we had all the time in the world, it would never be enough for us. But twelve hours is what we have. What we gotta’ work with. We'll make it work, won't we?" 

"I guess…" Castiel mumbles, and Dean smiles, tugging him forward as they resume walking _—_ this time however, with their hands held in each other's. 

"You know," Castiel starts after they've walked for a few long minutes, " ~~-~~ you don't look as horrifying as you say you are." 

Dean laughs, his head thrown back, before looking to the side to face Castiel. All at once, he feels an urge crawling through him, the urge to pull Castiel closer _and_ _closer and closer,_ until every inch of them is pressed to each other, to bury himself in the warm scent emanating off of Castiel. 

He admonishes himself with a brief cough, trying not to stare into the pool of Castiel's eyes. 

"Thanks, uh, thank you, I guess." 

"You're welcome." 

Castiel beams, and the uncertainty in the air seems to dissipate as they share a smile. Turning their eyes away once again, walking in the silence of the garden, with the soft howl of the breeze and the swaying of the trees as their only companions, Castiel breathes in a deep breath. 

"This feels different, doesn't it? I mean, I know it's you, I can feel it's you, but you're here, and part of me finds it so hard to accept that." 

Castiel pauses once again, and this time, Dean pauses with him. They turn to each other as if guided by a pull, and Dean quirks his bottom lip. 

"I'd say we're on the same page, buddy." 

"Oh, shut up with the _buddy_. Settle for one. Sweetheart or buddy?" 

Castiel huffs, so _adorably_ bothered by something so menial. A teasing tone laces Dean's words as he steps closer to Castiel, watching his blue eyes deepen with a darker shade of azure, and tugs him closer with a jerk, settling a hand on his waist. 

"What's wrong with both? I mean, aren't both of ‘em right? You're my buddy, and you're my..." 

"Sweetheart?" Castiel prompts, a stark, crimson tint flushing his face as he tries to bite back a smile. 

Dean doesn't answer, but his eyes linger on Castiel longer than he knows they're supposed to. When he finally caves in, he can't help the wide grin that unfurls on his lips. 

"Yeah." 

The smile on Castiel's lips fades into something sad, something morose, and Dean wants to curse whatever caused it. With a sigh, Castiel suggests they walk further. 

Not until they've walked a few steps further, does Dean speak up. "Are you still mad at me?" 

"I'm trying to be." 

The conviction in Castiel's voice surprises Dean, and he gives Castiel's hand a light squeeze as they continue walking. 

"Dean?" 

"Yeah?" 

Castiel stops in his tracks. His hand falls away from Dean's as he reaches up to rub the sleeve of his cardigan against his cheeks in a desperate attempt to wipe away the tears Dean notices right as he turns. 

"Don't leave. Please?" 

Turns out, all it needs for Dean to bulldoze through his meticulously built wall of emotions, is the sight of Castiel's face stained with tears, accompanied with a feeble _please_. 

Because then, in that one, single moment, Dean is saying _screw it_ to everything that has ever stopped him from having something as beautiful as Castiel, everything that has ever prompted him to keep his affection to himself, everything that has held him back from reaching this point, and he's striding over to Castiel, his instincts guiding him, as he slips his hand over Castiel's neck and presses his lips to Castiel's parted, damp ones. 

A surprised _oomph_ escapes Castiel's mouth, only to be swallowed down by Dean's lips on his. The world, in all its might, is reduced to nothing but the brush of a set of lips against Dean's own, Castiel's lips. It doesn't matter anymore, how loud the wind howls or how heavily the trees sway. All Dean can comprehend is _now_ : the touch of Castiel's soft palms on the side of his face, his lips, passive at first, then guiding Dean into a more vigorous, fervor-filled kiss, their bodies swaying against each other as if drawn by the wind. 

Dean isn't Dean anymore, and neither is Castiel a person of his own, for in that single moment, everything Dean has belongs to Castiel _—_ his lips, his mind, his heart _—_ everything is nothing but a flurry of colors, of lips, of sensations Dean feels for the first time, and wants to feel for years to come. It's as if the single brush of Castiel's lips has revived Dean from a death he's never known, as if Dean will never need anything else in life, except Castiel by his side, touching him, kissing him, melting so pliant and giving in his arms. 

Castiel pulls away, gasping for air and swaying on his feet, before rocking forward into Dean's arms. Resting his forehead against Dean's, arms sliding around Dean's neck, he presses close into the heat of Dean's body. 

"Dean." 

"I know. I know, sweetheart." 

Dean pulls away for a brief second, simply to drink in the sight of Castiel, eyes shut, swollen lips parted, and his face, his beautiful, tranquil face: the face of every dream Dean will ever have, the chorus of every love song he will ever hear, the subject of every poem he will ever read, and the color in every painting he will ever see. 

"We could have done this sooner," Castiel says, mischief lacing his words, as Dean noses against his cheek. 

"Better late than never." 

"Oh, way better than never." 

They chuckle, pulling away, only for Dean to link his fingers through Castiel's as they stand on the grass, faces inches apart, eyes transfixed onto each other until Castiel speaks up, "-Come home with me. It's cold outside." 

Dean takes a moment to simply study him then, before he grins, and drops his head against Castiel's shoulder. 

"Of course." 

A moment later, Castiel nudges Dean away, only to take hold of his hand as he turns towards the back-door of the apartment building. 

They walk, rather, Castiel drags Dean towards the door, until they're inside the elevator, pressed up against a corner with Dean's hands on Castiel's waist, Castiel's hands on Dean's shoulders, their faces diving in for a kiss, and another, and another. 

Dean hates how he has found himself a new addiction, the taste of Castiel’s lips. Castiel is rocking in his arms, enthusiastic and keen, threading his fingers through Dean's hair, tugging at the short, spiky hair at his nape, enough for their kisses to be passionate, desperate, but never wandering farther than the borders of demanding. Their hands settle at modest places on each other's bodies, and it isn't until the elevator dings, its rusty metal doors grinding open, that Dean pulls away, his mind hazy, his lips tingling, and his hands grabbing at any and every expanse of Castiel's body as they tumble out of the elevator. 

Castiel digs into the pocket of his jeans, retrieving a bunch of keys, one of which he shoves inside the keyhole to his front door. Dean pulls away for a few brief moments as the door creaks open and allows Castiel to lead the way. 

"It's erm, it's not much." 

The lights in the dark room flip on, and Dean is astonished by the elements of the room, standing out at different points. As if on instinct, his eyes first drift over to the wall they share, and instead of the bareness Dean has been staring at these past months, Castiel has a beautiful accent wallpaper covering the entirety of the wall. He quirks his lip up in an impressed notion, eyes skimming over the long three-seater sofa, the television screen across it, a peculiar stand _—_ one Dean assumes must be for Castiel's music _—_ and on a support beam across them, pieces of abstract art. The large window, similar to Dean's, has its shutters pulled down. Castiel hangs his keys on a hook next to the door and shuts the door behind them. 

"It's really beautiful, Cas. Way better than the empty shit I've been living in." 

"Yes, well," Castiel starts with a smile, " ~~-~~ I try to adjust it to my tastes. I prefer the comfort over the show, so you might find a few mismatched things." 

Dean smiles and Castiel turns away, flipping the lights in the kitchen on. Dean, not quite sure what he's supposed to do now, since he isn't exactly the ideal guest and doesn't want to overstep his boundaries, lingers in the living room a bit awkwardly, mimicking Castiel's actions and pushing his boots off, until Castiel pops his head out from the kitchenwith an expectant look in his eyes and an assuring smile. 

"Oh, you can come in. You don't have to be so formal," he says, and Dean nods. Thankful for the heat inside the house, he zips his hoodie down, pushing it off his shoulders to bundle it in his arms as he walks into Castiel's kitchen. He feels a little shy in the back of his mind, but the moment Dean is in the small room, Castiel is regarding him with a soft smile. 

The aroma of rich, black coffee tickles Dean's nostrils, and he breathes it in deep before stepping further inside the kitchen and leaning back against a counter, as he does at his own place when speaking on the phone. 

"Give me a minute," Castiel says as he works around the kitchen, moving from one foot to another to grab a pair of mugs from an upper shelf. Dean smiles when his eye catches the cartoon honeybee graphic mug. He's well aware of how big of an admirer Castiel is of bees. 

So, this is what he has been missing out on these past several weeks. Part of him does enjoy their moments spent in anonymity, but another part of him, seeing Castiel move so seamlessly in the kitchen, yearns to spend more time with him like this, to hold him, wrap his hands around his firm, warm body, to kiss the soft skin at his neck, to be the only one to make Castiel laugh, to make him smile, and _—_ _God_ , Dean realizes, just how far gone he is. Gone, no point of return. He's fallen, and he's fallen so deep, he can't see anything but Castiel. 

And tomorrow, everything will crumble to dust.

He knew he was in love when he talked to Castiel through the wall. But the moment he laid his eyes on him, Dean was nothing but _sure_ he was in love with Cas. 

"You're awfully silent. What's going on in your head?" 

Castiel's words draw Dean out of his reverie, and he shakes his head with a cursory smile, turning his gaze up to meet Castiel's as a steaming hot mug of coffee is placed in his hands, the mere scent of it sending a jolt of refreshment through Dean's body. 

"Nothing. Just stuff." 

"We do have a lot of 'stuff' to talk about it." 

Dean laughs at Castiel's use of finger quotes, finding the action surprisingly endearing. His laugh subdues into a brief smile and he nods his head, taking a sip of his coffee. 

"We do." He scratches the slight stubble on his jaw and steals a glance at Castiel, who seems preoccupied with peeling the cardigan off his shoulders. With a sigh, he pushes it off, revealing a threadbare maroon tee-shirt, one Dean finds his eyes lingering on more than they should, one that frames Castiel’s broad shoulders and stretches taut against his biceps. The cardigan flies over Dean's head, before landing on a small, two-seater dining table behind him, and Castiel mumbles a soft _oops_ as Dean ducks and laughs. 

"So," Castiel says. 

"So what?" Dean prompts, and Castiel shrugs his shoulders with a deep sigh, leaning back against the counter with his honeybee coffee mug in both hands. 

"I don't know. I mean, I want to say something. I just don't know where to start." Castiel sighs and proceeds to take a sip of his coffee. 

"We have to start somewhere," Dean says, as if what they should talk about is something obvious, something Castiel is already supposed to know. 

"Let's just," Castiel purses his lips before speaking, " ~~-~~ let's just start with why you didn't want me to see you?" 

"Then you'll tell me why you didn't talk to me for a week? Didn't answer my calls, didn't text me back, even when I was just checking in on you?" 

Dean compels Castiel to hold his gaze, and a glimmer of defiance flashes in Castiel's eyes, undoubtedly a glint of childish rebellion, before he scoffs, "-That's easy, you said I needed to start forgetting you, so I thought I'd make your job easier by doing it right then and there." 

"And you did all that for what? To prove what? _Did_ you forget me?" Dean asks. 

"Do I look like I did?" 

At once, Dean is aware of the silence between them, of the sound of nothingness inside his ears as he stares at Castiel, stares at this man who Dean is torn between wanting to kiss and wanting to punch. _Five days_. They could have said so many things in those five days. And now Dean will never know what they could have said, all because Castiel had a little childish fit. 

"You didn't answer my question, Dean," Castiel says, and Dean heaves a sigh, before taking a sip of his coffee. 

"I thought you wouldn't want me anymore, if you saw me," Dean pauses, " ~~-~~ saw my face." 

Something about Castiel's defensive demeanour falters, and his eyes soften, a light sheen of tears coating them as he sets his mug aside, lips parted, ready to argue back. Instead, he walks over to Dean _—_ not a long stretch, just a step or two forward _—_ allowing Dean enough time to move his own mug aside. A moment later, his jaw is being held in Castiel's soft hands, gentle lips brushing against his own, and as if on cue, Dean's hands slide around Castiel's waist, pulling him in, closer and closer, the faint, bitter taste of coffee dancing on their tongues, paired with something so uniquely _Cas_ , that Dean can't get enough of it. He licks his tongue over the seam of Castiel's lips, prodding and nudging, until Castiel's mouth falls open with a moan, and his tongue slides against Dean's, wet, hot and heavy: everything Dean expected it to be and yet, it catches him off guard, his legs wobbling under him, and he has to clutch onto Castiel to hold himself up. Right as they're venturing into a heated, sensual territory, Castiel pulls away, and his thumb strokes over Dean's cheekbone, grazing over the end of his scar. 

"Do you really think I'm so shallow? That I'd turn you down simply for how you look? Dean, I can't begin to explain to you how irresistibly attractive you are to me and let me tell you, that is a judgement based solely on the things you've said, the things you are. You're kind, and gentle, and funny, and you make me so happy. What more could I possibly ask from you?" 

Dean finds himself speechless, not for the first time that day, not for the first time ever, because Castiel _always_ has this effect on him. Always catches him off-guard. 

"But there's so many reasons for you to not like me," he stammers. 

"Oh? Name one," Castiel says, stepping back and crossing his arms against his chest, raising an eyebrow in a challenge, and Dean sighs. 

"Okay," he says firmly and with emphasis, "-for starters, I'm eight years older than you, Cas. _Eight."_

"I like older men," Castiel whispers, and shrugs with an air of nonchalance, eyes twinkling with mischief. 

Dean all but chokes on his own spit. 

"Alright, well, uh," he pauses, still stunned by Castiel's previous reply, " ~~-~~ I lash out at people when I'm angry at them." 

"And that's something you need to work on, but it doesn't mean I'll stop liking you," Castiel argues back, and _God_ , _is the guy ever going to back down?_

"Fine, how 'bout this? I'm leaving for Lawrence tomorrow, don't know if I'll ever be back, and I'm going to be leaving _you_. Reason enough to not like me?" 

At this, Castiel's expression softens, and he steps back, a flicker of defeat within the deep, blue eyes Dean finds himself staring into. His shoulders stiffen, his demeanor morphing back into the same frigid one as before and his voice drops low. 

"You can change things, Dean. I don't know to what extent, but we always have a choice. You said I was your first choice, but you're obviously wrong." 

There it is, that childish pout on Castiel’s face as he leans back against the counter across from Dean, his eyes roaming anywhere but to Dean. 

Dean rubs a hand over his face, an exasperated sigh slipping past his lips. 

"Cas, this is exactly what I'm talking about here," he says, highlighting his words by waving a hand between them. " ~~-~~ You and I, we're different people. You're young, sweetheart, you have so much ahead of you. You, Cas, you'll grow, you'll discover. You're not even thirty yet, for crying out loud." Castiel's lips twitch with annoyance, but Dean continues, " ~~-~~ Think about all the people you could meet, all the people you could be with. Out of every single person you could possibly find, you choose me?" 

Castiel meets Dean's eyes. His eyebrows knit and his face flushes red as he stomps a foot, then turns away from Dean to grab his coffee. 

"I never chose you, Dean, I never chose for this to happen. It happened, and I can't change it, and I don't want to change it." 

"It? What _it_?" 

Silence falls upon them for a few seconds. 

"You know what it is." 

"Say it," Dean urges Castiel. Their eyes meet for a brief second before Castiel is stepping into Dean's space, close, so close it causes Dean's breath to hitch, and he has to refrain himself from diving down for a kiss. 

"I'll say it, alright?” Castiel says. “-You know why? 'Cause right now, I'm not scared. I don't give a damn about repressed feelings, about what's wrong or what's right. All I know is that you're here and I'm here, and I love you,” His voice breaks, only spurring the ache in Dean’s chest, “-and I'm going to lose you tomorrow." 

It's strange how Castiel just says it. He just says it. 

His blue eyes blur with unshed tears, and all Dean wants to do is bury himself in Castiel's arms, hold him, soothe him, tell him they're going to be alright. He finds himself shaken by the sudden onslaught of emotions he feels, but he stays put, standing his ground and meeting Castiel's teary eyes, although it stings him to watch Castiel teetering on the edge of a breakdown. 

"Cas..." 

"Cas, _what?_ I don't _—_ Dean, I just..." Castiel breathes in a deep gasp, eyes spilling a tear as he reaches back to hold onto the counter, trying to steady himself as another tear rolls down his face. " ~~-~~ You can't leave, Dean _—_ I just met you. I just met you, and I want to know you. Please. I try so hard, so hard to tell myself I'm alright, tell myself I don't need anyone to hold, to kiss, to love, but it's all a lie. And now you're here, and for once, I know I'm capable of being loved, but now you're _—_ you're _—_ " 

Dean’s mind acts on instinct, pulling Castiel closer with a hand on the small of his back. He rests his head against the juncture of Castiel's shoulder, dropping a soft kiss on the smooth skin there as he feels Castiel shake under him with shallow sobs. 

"Hey, hey, we have time for now, right?" 

"But it isn't enough. It's just not enough," Castiel argues, clutching tight onto Dean's shirt, pressing his face into Dean's neck, where he feels Castiel's lips quiver on his skin. 

"We'll make it work tonight, okay? We still have some time. Come on, stop crying, Cas, you're strong, aren't you, sweetheart? C'mon." 

Dean nudges him away, pressing his hands to the sides of Castiel's face as he wipes his tears away with his thumb, finding himself smiling on instinct. Castiel sniffles softlybefore returning his small smile. 

"How about you read something for me? Another poem? Take your mind off things," Dean suggests, but Castiel shakes his head right away, a deep, red hue painting his face. 

"Why not?" 

"It's weird. I mean, I don't know, I don't want you to watch me read one." 

"Alright, well, why don't you play something for me? Something nice? Who was that violin guy you told me 'bout? With those freaky fingers?" 

Castiel gives a weak laugh, his blurry eyes twinkling with mirth as his head falls back, grinning wide at Dean, and Dean prides himself on invoking such a reaction from Castiel. 

"Paganini," he says in a feeble voice, and Dean brushes his fingers through Castiel's dark, fluffy hair. 

"Yeah, that guy. Play me something like that." 

"I don't have magic fingers," Castiel huffs, a naive grin curling at his lips. 

"Alright, play whatever you want. Besides,” Dean admits, “-I've been meaning to watch you play since the moment I knocked on that wall." 

At once, a silence crawls between them, and Castiel stares at him with such wonder-filled eyes, Dean finds it hard to refrain himself from stealing another kiss off his adorable, puckered lips. 

"Should I go get my violin?" Castiel asks, eyes wide with childish excitement, lips hung open as he waits for Dean's answer. 

"Wha _—_ sure? I wasn't expecting you to play it on my ass." Dean grins, knowing just how much his lame comments irk Castiel, and as expected, Castiel narrows his eyes at him. 

"Ugh." 

With a sarcastic roll of his eyes, Castiel dislodges from Dean, and grabs his hand, dragging him out of the kitchen and into the living room, where he urges Dean to sit down on the sofa. Dean watches as Castiel grabs a slender violin case from the shelf across him and unlocks the case with utmost care. Although it's no surprise how delicate Castiel is with his violin, Dean does find it quite endearing, since Castiel always treats everything with such sensitivity. 

"Alright, so, I think I might play, uh, it's uh, a Serenade, by Franz Schubert. Typically, a piano would act as the background, but I can't play both at the same time." 

Dean settles back into the soft cushion of the sofa, and his hands settle in his lap as he watches Castiel, whose eyes are focused and determined, his cheeks still stained with drying tears. Taking a deep breath, Castiel positions the violin on his shoulder, fingers wrapped around the thin bow, and Dean braces himself for the first note, only for Castiel to snort and slump over, shaking his head. 

"Sorry, I just..." _God, he's cute when he's blushing_. Dean smiles, leaning forward in his seat as he looks up at Castiel. " ~~-~~ It's been so long since I played for someone, especially with them watching me." 

"It's just me, Cas. Just me," Dean assures, and their eyes meet. Something reaffirming blooms within Castiel, and Dean can see it in the way his eyes glisten with conviction and he bites down on his lip, nodding his head, as he sets the violin back on his shoulder. 

The bow slides against the strings, and a note, heartbreaking and morose, unfurls in the air, breaking through the silence. Dean wants to shut his eyes and immerse himself in the sound of the violin, each note better than the previous, but his eyes stay fixated on Castiel, on Castiel's face, the furrow of his eyebrows as his intense blue eyes move along the strings, the parting of his lips as he sucks in a silent breath, the slide of the bow, the curve of his fingers on the neck of the violin. 

Castiel sways on his feet, gently, and it's as if his body works in tune with the violin, swaying to the right on a high note, slumping forward on a low note, and Dean finds himself hypnotized by the sound of the music thrumming under his skin, reverberating off the walls, and spiralling within his mind. Castiel is focused on the movement of his fingers, and the room surges with the melody. The tune is hopeful at times, but also gut-wrenching. It brings to Dean's mind visions of cold, stormy nights, of loss, betrayal, helplessness, but it also shows him images of love, of sunrises, of ecstasy. 

It is as if the world and Dean have become two separate entities, where nothing outside the room is of importance anymore, as if time passes by slowly, no buzzing, no rush, no haste _—_ and then the music stops _—_ It stops and Dean blinks his eyes open, drifting them up to Castiel, who seems to hesitate for a moment, before looking to Dean, expectant and waiting. 

"That was..."

What can he say? He wants to say _amazing, spectacular, magical, ethereal, surreal, wonderful_ , and God, they need to come up with more adjectives in the English language. Dean finds himself nearly speechless. 

"Indescribable,” he settles on. “-I mean, it was, it was beautiful, Cas, I think listening to this has taken me a step closer to achieving self-actualization." 

Castiel laughs, and in that moment, Dean decides Castiel's laughter, by far, despite the exquisite piece of music he heard seconds ago, has to be the most beautiful sound he has ever heard. 

"Well, that's very sweet of you to say." 

His wide, gummy smile brings a smile to Dean's own face, and he nods as Castiel turns away, setting his violin and bow back into the case. He seals the case shut and placesit back onto the shelf before turning back to Dean. His eyes wander over the space above him, pursing his lips as he appears to think about something. 

"Cas." At once, at the sound of his name, Castiel's eyes snap to Dean, and he raises his eyebrows. 

"Hmm?" 

"Come here." 

Castiel doesn't hesitate, simply walks over to stand in front of Dean, who slides his hands around his waist, hyper-aware of the sudden intimacy between them. God, if he doesn't touch Castiel right now, he might combust.

Dean lets his head fall against Castiel's stomach, soft, but in some ways quite toned, and warm hands settle around his neck, brushing through his hair. For a moment he simply allows himself to _feel_ Castiel against him. 

And then Castiel is sinking down, his knees digging into the sofa on either side of Dean's hips, his hands wrapped tight around Dean's neck as their noses press against each other, lips brushing in a hasty, desperate kiss. It's wet, it's open, it's lousy, there's no technique, only urgency, and Dean finds his hands sliding under Castiel's shirt, gliding up over his warm, firm back. Castiel hisses at the first touch of Dean's fingers to his bare skin, a tangible shiver running through his body. 

Eager hands push Dean back into the sofa, and it is indication enough for Dean to let go of the control, allowing Castiel to drive their kiss as he slips his tongue inside Dean's mouth, Dean craving the slide of his heated tongue against his own. Only a few seconds in, though, Castiel pulls back with a loud suck at Dean's lip. 

"Dean." His voice is soft, hoarse, and it sends a shiver down Dean's spine. " ~~-~~ Don't go, please, don't leave me." Castiel rests his forehead against Dean's, his breath hot and heavy against Dean's cheek, his hands clutching onto Dean's shirt. When Dean's eyes blink open, he finds himself staring in a pool of blue eyes. 

He almost changes his mind. 

"Cas, I, it's _—_ I know it's too soon. And I hate it just as much as you do, but I don't know what I'll do here. Back in Lawrence, I can take over my uncle's garage, work on cars, the things I love. It's quiet, it's reclusive, it's what I've wanted for so long after duty. I don't know what my purpose is here. And if I stayed here, I'd have to sell the house, sell the garage, get all my furniture here, look for a better flat. It just... It wouldn't work." 

Dean sighs, and his hands fall from Castiel's back down to rub his waist. 

"But... But..." Castiel's voice weakens. Then, as if something changes inside him, he slumps down, shoulders going lax. He breathes in a deep breath, eyes wandering passively over some thread on Dean's shirt, before he purses his lips and sighs. 

"Cas _—_ " 

"It's alright. You have to leave, I know. There are better things for you back home, Dean, I get it. I don't know what I'd do if I were in your place, but I know you’re doing what you think is right. We'll just... try to make it work somehow. Maybe a long-distance relationship, although I'm not sure it would be that effective." 

Somehow, Castiel losing hope about Dean altogether is monumentally worse than his incessant pleas. 

And it stings Dean right in the gut. 

_Better? What does he mean better, when he's the best thing I've ever had?_

"Cas, we'll figure it out, alright?" Dean says and rubs a hand over Castiel's jaw. 

"Alright." 

But Castiel doesn't sound alright. He sounds indifferent and his eyes don't meet Dean's. The word is hollow, as if he doesn't believe Dean at all, as if he's accepting a truth he _knows_ is a lie. And it hurts Dean, because he loves Castiel, and that's something Castiel should know at this point. All Dean wants to do is make Castiel happy. Not hurt him. 

"Cas." 

"Hmm?" 

"I love you." 

A sad smile graces Castiel's lips, but his eyes, cold and devoid of their usual wonder, regard Dean with a guilt-ridden expression. 

"I love you too." 

Their eyes linger upon each other for a few moments, before Castiel's eyes move along the thick scar running down Dean's face. Slender fingers reach up to graze over the thick, rough skin where once, Dean recalls, a thick, gruesome gash had been. 

"Dean?" 

"Yeah?" 

"How did you..." Castiel's breath staggers, and his blue eyes meet Dean's, " ~~-~~ how did you get this?" 

Dean frowns, shifting over on the sofa until he's lying down, his back sinking into the cushion under him, head on the armrest. Castiel lays on his chest, passive and pliant, his fingers dancing along the stubble on Dean's jaw. It takes them a few seconds to adjust, but then Dean is a bit more comfortable, and Castiel rests his chin on Dean's chest, right between his collar bone, gazing up at him with wonder-filled eyes, urging Dean to continue. The lights around them are dim, not as bright as the one in the kitchen, but it's enough for Dean to map out Castiel's face, the curve of his jaw, the crinkles around his eye when he smiles, and the sharp, defined eyebrows. 

"Explosion," Dean says, and hopes it's enough to satisfy Castiel's curiosity. Castiel being Castiel, however, he pries further. 

"Explosion? When?" 

"Couple years ago. Missed my eye by half an inch. Never been more thankful in life." 

"I can see that." Castiel breathes, and his finger runs down over the tip of the scar right above Dean's right eyebrow, across his nose, to where the scar dips down onto the left side of Dean's face, ending on his cheek below his left eye. 

"It must have hurt." 

"Like a bitch. Couldn't eat for days. Every time I opened my mouth, there would be this searing, hot pain, just _—_ " 

Dean's eyes shut, and his mind brings to him memories of the explosion. The thunderous sound, as if his ears would bleed at any moment; the fire, spread out wide and rising up higher; the vague shape of something in the air, flying closer and closer to him; and then _—_ pain and then, nothing. 

He recalls waking up in a white, bare room, his back on a foreign bed, an insulin tube in his wrist, and, most glaring of all, the large, white plaster over his face. It hurt, son of a bitch, it hurt. There had been a flurry of people around him, some whom he knew, some whom he didn't. Nurses, medics, his army friends, talking to him about shrapnel, and blood, and God, and miracles. He recalls, just as vividly, staring at himself in the mirror for the first time after the surgery, the urge to hide his face, to scream, to wrap a cloth around it and never see it again, the emotion rising in his mind, his heart beating faster, the tears spilling over his face _—_

"Dean?" 

Castiel's voice draws Dean out of his stupor, and he blinks once, meeting Castiel's concerned eyes. The silence in the room is unparalleled, and Castiel's voice, although soft and weak, sounds like a knife cutting through the silence. 

"You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen." 

A chuckle slips past Dean’s lips unbidden. "You make me sound like a Greek god." 

Castiel grins, resting his face against Dean's cheek. "You are to me." 

"This is the first time you've seen me," Dean says, and tightens his arms around Castiel. 

Castiel’s smile fades away. 

"And the last." 

For a second, Dean can do nothing but stare at Castiel. 

"It's just Lawrence, Cas. I'll come meet you sometimes." 

"It won't be the same." 

A pause. Silence lingers in the air. 

"I wish things were different." 

It's a whisper, and Dean sighs, eyes shut as he simply drinks in the scent of Castiel, the scent of his fading laundry detergent, the scent of the grass he'd been sitting in a few hours ago, and the scent of something so _uniquely_ Castiel, Dean can't place his finger on it. 

"I wish too," he whispers. 

A moment later, Castiel pulls back, and Dean sits up, following Castiel's actions. 

"Do you want to... Do you want to come sleep with me for the night?" Castiel asks. 

Of course, Dean cracks a joke. 

"I dunno’, I usually go for home base after the third date." 

"There is no home base and there are no dates. Shut up." Castiel flushes red, and shaking his head, rises from the sofa and stretches his arms out, lips falling open in a large yawn, as he squeezes his eyes shut. Dean grins.

_He’s like a cat_.

"I know it's a Saturday, you must be sleepy," Dean says, and rises up, hand reaching out to touch Castiel on instinct.

Castiel nods, humming something incoherent, and drops his head against Dean's chest. 

"I don't want to sleep. I want to talk to you." 

"I'll be right there with you,” Dean assures. “Get some sleep." 

Castiel considers it for a moment before smiling. Stepping back, he reaches for Dean's hand as they walk into his bedroom. Castiel switches on a dim, yellow light which illuminates the room only partially, and Dean allows his eyes to wander around. Castiel’s bedroom is minimal. Book shelves on both walls, a large queen size bed, and a few paintings hung on the bare walls. 

"It's uh, I don't know, it's usually messier," Castiel scoffs. He seats himself down at the edge of the bed and peels his socks off. Dean doesn't really know what he's supposed to do, so he simply stands and watches Castiel. 

As if having read his mind, Castiel says, "You don't need to take them off, that's okay." 

Dean chuckles. "Yeah, uh, it's been years since I slept with someone, I mean, _slept_ -slept." 

Castiel grins, and scoots back on the bed. 

"Usually I'd change, but I'm too tired, and I don't want to move anymore." As if to emphasize his point, he yawns again, and Dean smiles. 

"Don't keep standing there, Dean, you can come here." His hands reach out, fingers wiggling, and Dean shakes his head at the sheer childishness of the action. 

Leaning down onto the bed, he moves forward until he's falling into Castiel's arms. A glance up at Castiel shows him Castiel has shut his eyes already, but he squeezes Dean in his arms before rolling them over until they're on their sides, Dean buried in Castiel's arms.

"Feels nice," Dean mumbles, and presses closer to Castiel, who threads his fingers through Dean's hair, massaging his scalp. Dean gives out a relaxed sigh before a mighty yawn has his lips falling open. He feels Castiel staring at him, his round, blue eyes fixed onto Dean's face. 

"You won't leave? Promise?" Castiel asks, all at once, and although Dean doesn't really know which _leaving_ Castiel is referring to, he smiles regardless. 

"I won't ditch you, Cas, I promise." 

With that, the heavy lull of a slumber drags Dean away, his consciousness spiraling out. Paired with the warm embrace around him, the delicate fingers dancing in his hair, and the assuring weight of Castiel next to him, Dean finds himself falling asleep faster than he ever has before in months.


	10. Chapter 10

_You cannot love a thing without wanting to fight for it._

_—Gilbert K. Chesterton._

* * *

The coffee machine beeps, the steam rising up hot and thick, the aroma of rich coffee beans floating in the air while Castiel grabs the kettle and pours himself a mugful. The liquid, smooth and dark, sloshes into the mug, the only sound in the room that of the kettle clicking, and Castiel sets it aside, grabbing his mug instead and bringing it up to his lips to take a sip. The burn sliding down his throat is bitter, but quite welcome. 

The window is open, the cool, winter morning breeze blowing in, bringing with it the possibility of snow, and although Castiel wants to shut the window, he can't get himself to bother about something as menial as a cold room when there are things much important to be tended to. Like the oncoming dread of Dean's departure. 

Dean is in the bedroom. Fast asleep. He'd fallen asleep quite early the night before, considering the fact that out of the two of them, Dean was the one who'd been facing issues with his insomnia. Of course, Castiel wasn't complaining. The weight in his arms was something he never knew he'd crave so much. 

It's only been a bit since Castiel woke up, and a glance at the clock tells him it's around half past eight— early, considering they fell asleep at around two in the morning. Once awake, Castiel had dropped a kiss to Dean's forehead before leaving to take his routine shower. Dean usually wakes by eight-thirty, which means he'll be awake soon. 

Part of Castiel wishes he wouldn't wake up soon, wishes Dean would remain snuggled up in his bed, and that Castiel could walk back in, slip under the covers, and curl up in Dean's arms. But part of him knows better. 

Last night had been a glimpse of the life he could have with Dean. 

But sadly, it only remains a glimpse. 

As Castiel takes a second sip of his coffee, he decides _screw it,_ and rises from the table, not bothering about the coffee settled on it. He walks into the bedroom, where the comforter is draped over Dean up to his neck, and without a word, crawls onto the bed, slipping under the comforter, and shifting until his body is pressed against Dean's. Dean is warm, so soft and tempting, and it aches Castiel to disrupt his peace, but he can't hold himself back as he runs his fingers through Dean's hair and burrows his head in the crook of Dean's shoulder, drinking in the sound of his slow breaths, feeling the weight of his chest, rising and falling steadily against Castiel's own, and drapes Dean's arms around himself. 

It feels... hot. And secure. And safe. Like nothing in the world could ever hurt Castiel if he simply stayed in Dean's arms. 

The movement seems to draw Dean out of his slumber, and his eyebrows furrow before he breathes in deep, loud breaths, and shifts on the bed, tightening his arms around Castiel. His vivid green eyes flutter open, still hazy with sleep, and a fleeting second of confusion strikes him before he gives a smile. 

"Cas." 

"Dean." 

He yawns, so wide it makes Castiel chuckle, and he turns onto his back to stretch his arms out before grinning, rolling onto his side and burying himself within Castiel's arms, nosing at his neck, hands sliding around Castiel's waist, under his shirt and over his bare skin, pulling him closer. 

"This is so much better than talking through a wall," Dean hums, and Castiel threads his fingers through the hair at his nape. 

"Mhm." 

"God, we should do this every day," Dean mutters, but pauses as if realizing the words he said. 

A sick, metaphorical knife twists within Castiel's guts. 

"It's Sunday," Castiel whispers, "-you have to leave." 

"I don't want to leave." 

Dean's fingers run down Castiel's shoulder, sending a slight shiver through his skin, and he swallows a lump growing at the back of his throat. 

"Then don't," he says, voice barely audible, wet with emotions he's trying so hard to suppress. 

"Easier said than done, Cas." 

A hopeful tone laces Castiel's words as he voices his suggestion to Dean. 

"What if you sold your house in Lawrence? What if you moved in with me? You could start a job here. Or, or, you could start your own auto garage. Sell your uncle's." 

"Sounds easy on paper, sweetheart." 

The smile on Dean's face falters. His dim, dismal green eyes, not the ones Castiel had seen the night before, filled with adoration and affection, wander down Castiel's face, to his mouth, and with the softest touch, Dean brushes his thumb over Castiel's lip. 

"I don't want you to leave," Castiel croaks, his eyes glassy as he blinks a tear away. It rolls down his face, onto the pillow, within the narrow gap between their faces, and Dean simply locks his jaw, eyes intense as he regards Castiel. 

"I don't want to leave you either." 

"Then why aren't you doing anything about it?" 

There's something unintentionally childish about the way Castiel says this, and he regrets it at once, unable to apologize as Dean simply fixes him with an appeasing look, not harsh or sarcastic, but something didactic about the way he answers. 

"Fine. Move in with me back in Lawrence. Get another job as a nurse there. Start a new life with me. It ain't easy, baby, it's hard work." 

A shaky gasp slips past Castiel's lips. "I wish I could. But I have a life here, Dean. You, you still have the time to make changes, if you just think over it." 

Dean's hands retreat from him, from his face, from his waist, and at once, Castiel yearns for the touch, only to be met by Dean's disgruntled huff as he rolls over onto his back. 

"Cas, sweetheart, please, I'm trying so hard to just, not think about it, okay? Trust me, I'm a hundred times madder about this than you can imagine, so let's not talk about it at all." 

There. _Great_. Now he's irritated Dean. 

"Sure, let's not talk about the elephant in the room," Castiel mutters, rolling over onto his back, folding his hands over his stomach as he stares up at the bare ceiling, a small, round chandelier hanging from it, one they'd ended up switching on last night, despite falling asleep minutes later. 

"I'm heading home for a shower," Dean states, blunt and decisive. 

"When do you leave?" 

Castiel knows the answer already. In two, meaningless hours, Dean Winchester will be leaving. 

"Thought I told you already. At eleven." Dean's voice is gruff, and Castiel knows it's not the way he wanted things to go, but he sits up anyway, fidgeting with a fingernail. He doesn’t bother responding to Dean, because, hey, he doesn't have to be _mean_ about it. Castiel knows. Castiel knows what he's feeling, knows what he wants to say. 

The prolonged silence in the air ends with Dean sighing, and then warm hands slip under Castiel's arms, snaking over to lace within his fingers. But Castiel doesn't meet Dean's eyes. He gulps, and continues to stare at their linked fingers. 

"Hey, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to sound rude, Cas. It's just... This is hard on both of us, and I know you know that, I'll just, I'll try to be a bit softer. Yeah?" Slender fingers touch the bottom of his chin, urging him to look up, and Castiel gives in at last, unable to resist as he meets Dean's soft eyes, and they share a tender smile. 

"How 'bout this, you and I, let's get dressed, and then we'll head down to the city for some grub? Yeah? Like a little date?" 

Dean bumps his shoulder against Castiel's, and it tugs a little grin at the corner of his lips. 

"Alright." 

"Great, why don't you get dressed, and I'll meet you in twenty minutes. I'll knock on the wall. Besides, I need to pack my bags into my car anyway. Might as well do it as soon as possible." 

Castiel nods to Dean's suggestion, and he feels his face heat up with the way Dean's eyes fix onto him. From the corner of his eye, Castiel notices Dean leaning in, and before he has the time to move, Dean kisses the side of his neck. 

He recoils with a laugh. 

"Dean—" he starts, only to be cut off by another kiss to his shoulder. Dean's fingers slide under his shirt, over his waist as they nudge Castiel back into the bed, and Castiel falls into the mattress, pliant and needy. Dean latches his lips to his neck, settling between his legs, as their hands tangle within each other's with desperation. Dean noses against Castiel's neck, his lips nipping at the sensitive skin at Castiel's neck, before he tugs it between his teeth, and Castiel gasps at the slight twinge of pain, only for Dean to soothe it with another kiss. 

"Dean, go—" Castiel shakes his head with a defeated grin, and pushes Dean away, their eyes meeting. A glimmer of mischief twinkles within his eyes. 

"But we're having so much fun." 

"No, you promised to get me _'grub'_." Castiel emphasizes his words with finger quotes, and Dean snorts, before allowing Castiel to continue, "-So, live up to it." 

"Alright, alright. Get your pretty ass dressed, I'll come by in a while." Dean pushes himself off the bed and stretches his arms up, yawning before sending Castiel a smile, and walking out the bedroom. Castiel follows him on instinct out of the bedroom and into the living room, where Dean grabs his phone and put his boots on.

"Twenty minutes, alright? We'll drive down to the city. Get you some hamburgers." 

"For breakfast?" Castiel asks, an incredulous chuckle slipping past his lips as he leans against the threshold of his house, watching Dean tie up his boots. 

"Ain't no rule that says you can't have hamburgers for breakfast. Live a little, buddy." 

Something about how casual Dean is with him unfurls something warm within Castiel's chest, and he feels a giddy smile make its way to his lips as he crosses his arms over his chest. And then, again comes, the lingering feeling of the impermanence of the moment. How their time together will crumble down to nothing but a mere memory in both of their minds. And all Castiel will be left with is the ache of his heart, the longing he won't be able to suppress. Of course, he knows he can simply dial Dean's number when he wants to talk to him, but it won't be the same. And now that Castiel has had a taste of how his life could be with Dean, he doesn't want to give it up. 

A snap of fingers in front of his face draws him out of his stupor, and Castiel lifts his gaze up to meet Dean's. 

"I said, I'll see you later." 

Still a bit disoriented by the sudden onslaught of emotions, Castiel hums with a jerky nod and moves as Dean steps out, beaming at him when Dean drops a soft kiss onto Castiel's hair. 

Castiel watches as Dean digs into his pocket for his key and inserts it into the keyhole of the door just a few feet away from Castiel's. With the click of the lock, Dean sends Castiel one last glance, before stepping into his apartment and shutting the door behind him. 

With a sigh, Castiel shuts his door behind him and walks inside. He only gets a few steps further before a loud knock rings through the room, and, on reflex, he looks to the wall. 

"Dean?" he calls out, confused, his eyebrows knitting together as he takes a few hesitant steps towards the wall. 

_"I love you."_

Every muscle in his body goes lax as Castiel leans against the wall, his hand pressed against the wall as he grins, his face warm as he tries to calm the excitement thrumming under his veins. 

"I love you too." 

He recalls with vivid description, the first moment he'd heard Dean. The low, husky tone of his voice, the embarrassment Castiel had felt, the strangeness of the situation, the snickering of Jack in the back... Part of him can't believe it's been more than two months already. And every single day since then, Castiel has only found himself drawn closer to Dean. 

_Mr. Green._

Silence follows his answer, so he supposes Dean must have walked away. Not wanting to delay their _date_ , Castiel scurries into his bedroom and pulls his closet open, releasing a bundle of clothes poorly folded tumbling to the floor. He pushes them away, back into the closet, before grabbing a pair of jeans and a sky-blue tee-shirt, one Jack had once complimented him on. He'd said it matched Castiel's eyes. Without another moment wasted, Castiel changes into his clothes, splashes some water on his face and brushes his fingers through his hair in an attempt to pass as presentable, before grabbing his wallet, keys and phone, and stuffing them into his pocket. He downs the remnants of his now lukewarm coffee, and, as expected, around half-an-hour after Dean left, a knock echoes on the wall in the living room. 

"You ready?" 

"Yes," Castiel calls out. Right as he's slipping his white sneakers on, his eye catches something bundled up against the sofa in the living room. As he walks further to inspect it, he finds it's—

_Dean's jacket? He must have left it last night. I'll return it now._

With a soft exhale, he holds the jacket up, senses instantly flooding with the scent of Dean's cologne, something spicy, and something softer clinging to the fabric, laundry freshener, maybe. Before he knows it, he's bundling the jacket closer to his face, and the scent of the jacket is no less than the warmth Dean exudes around him. A smile graces Castiel's lips as he pulls away and proceeds to fold the jacket, draping it over his arm as he walks over to the door, stepping out and shutting it behind him. 

Right as he's about to turn towards Dean's door, it clicks open, and in front of him appears Dean, hands laden with a few duffle bags, the fresh scent of his shampoo floating in the air as Dean smiles. Castiel allows himself a moment to wander his eyes down Dean, down his damp, blondish hair, down his toned, well-built arms stretching taut against the fabric of the dark, brown canvas jacket he's wearing with a green Henley underneath, the very arms that held Castiel the night before. 

He shifts his gaze up to meet Dean's eyes. 

"You look nice. And smell nice too." 

"Born with it." Dean quirks his bottom lip, and Castiel refrains himself from grinning wider, shaking his head. Dean sets each of the duffle bags onto the ground and the sight of the packed bags tugs at something inside Castiel. 

_This is happening. This is really happening. Dean is leaving. Dean is really leaving_. 

"You okay?" Dean asks, and the sound of his voice draws Castiel out of his thoughts. 

"Yes." 

"You're thinking," Dean notes, quite aptly at that, and he steps closer to Castiel, strangely casual as he takes Castiel's hands into his own. His eyes fix onto Castiel with utmost focus, as if nothing else exists in the universe, and even if it did, Dean wouldn't bother about it. 

"Just trying to process it." 

In the blink of an eye, there are soft, somewhat chapped lips brushing over Castiel's and broad hands wrapping around his hips as Dean guides them to the side, until Castiel's back is pressed against a wall, Dean's body, although by a mere inch or half, towering over Castiel. Dean's lips are eager, and the way he moves around Castiel at the moment, his hands soothing down Castiel's back, holding him close, his lips kissing with soft pecks, his forehead barely touching Castiel's, as he dives in deeper— it’s intoxicating. The movement of their bodies jostles the jacket in Castiel's hands, and he pulls away with a gasp. 

"Oh, you forgot your jacket at my place." 

Dean glances down at his duffle bags, then up his own chest, before facing Castiel with an amused grin. 

"Just wear it." 

"Why?" Castiel asks, holding the jacket up in his arms as he watches Dean lick his lips. 

"My bags are stuffed full; besides, I'm wearing a jacket already. Just, y'know, put it on if it gets cold or something." 

With a brief smile, Castiel nods, and slips into the jacket. It's a little loose on his shoulders, but apart from that, it fits quite well, and it smells wonderful, just like Dean. Dean on the other hand, quirks his lip and lays a short clap on Castiel's shoulders before grabbing his duffle bags. 

"Need a hand?" Castiel asks, only for Dean to brush him off. 

"Nah, I got it." 

With a slight nod, Castiel presses the button for the elevator and leans against the wall behind him. 

"So, what'll you do when you get back to Lawrence?" 

"I don't know. Maybe settle in, y'know, get the furniture in place, see if all my stuff's there, talk to Sam. Oh, I haven't talked to Sam this morning, I'll ring him later." Dean shrugs, and they walk into the elevator when it opens up, Castiel helping Dean in with his bags. 

"Is it a big house?" Castiel asks in turn, as he leans back against the railing. 

"Bigger than an apartment flat. It's a suburban house, Cas, just in a not-so-suburban place in Lawrence. 

"Hmm." 

The moment Castiel leans against the railing, memories come to mind from the night before, memories of Dean's weight against him, their lips eager and desperate, the moans that had escaped Castiel's mouth. He flushes red now, swallowing down a lump at the back of his throat. He wonders in the back of his mind if Dean, like Castiel, is thinking of the same. He glances over at Dean, who meets his wide eyes before averting his gaze with a slight blush. Well. There's the answer. 

"Oh,” Dean says suddenly as they step out of the elevator, “-this is good, this is good, you haven't met Baby yet, have you?" 

At once, Dean's eyes widen with childish excitement, and he grins large and proud as he glances back at Castiel. 

"Baby?" 

"Yeah, uh, I don't remember if I mentioned her to you. She's my car." 

"She?" Castiel asks incredulously, but he isn't quite surprised by the fact that Dean probably has feelings for his car. He's a strange guy like that. He once mentioned his love for memory foam— a completely random fact that pops into Castiel's head for absolutely no reason. The way Dean had described sleeping on it, Castiel knew it would put the greatest poets to shame. 

"Yeah. She. I mean, it was dad's car, y'know, back in the day when he was in his peak, getting the girls, riding with the boys, but then, when I turned twenty, dad gave it over to me. She's a classic, Cas, a classic. You gotta’ see her. She means so much to me." 

Castiel smiles. Dean always talks about things with such passion and, such admiration, it's hard not to smile. Dean _is_ a passionate man himself, one thing Castiel has learnt in these past months. Whether it's over Jimmy Page's guitar solo, or just Castiel's leftover lasagna. And the few kisses they've shared since the night before is _definitely_ proof enough. He's rambling now, something about house rules and music, but Castiel isn't listening to him, he's watching him, watching his eyes widen when he speaks, watching his eyebrows bounce, watching his lips twitch, watching his bow legs strut as they walk outside. 

"...Right?" Dean asks, and it draws Castiel out of his reverie. He raises an eyebrow at Dean. 

"Hmm?" 

"I said, where do you want to eat? 

"Oh, uh, anywhere is fine. As long as we're together." Castiel smiles and notices how Dean's eyes linger on him for a few seconds before he turns with a hum. They stop at a car, black and very... _old_. Not appearance-wise— the car is beautiful, extremely well maintained— but the style is old. 

"Baby, meet sweetheart. Sweetheart, meet Baby." 

Castiel feels his face heat up as his lips spread into a wide grin. He steps forward, fingers drifting along the smooth, polished black metal of the car. Castiel isn't someone who cares much about cars, since he usually walks or takes a bus to work, but judging by the proud grin on Dean's face, the car must be extremely special. 

"She's very pretty." 

Dean beams at Castiel's words before slapping the top of the car, a distinct glint of adoration in his eyes. 

"That she is." He pulls away and drops the duffels by the trunk, but not before opening the door to the passenger seat in the front. "-Make yourself comfortable. I'll be in there in a second." 

With that, Dean disappears behind the open trunk of the car, and Castiel, following Dean's instructions, slips inside the car, finding it surprisingly spacious. The seats are leather, and the heater in the car has warmed the interior enough for Castiel to bask in the heat, a sharp contrast to the cold outside. 

"So, I promised you hamburgers," Dean says as he slides into the driver's seat and slams the door shut after him, "-and I know just the place. It's about fifteen minutes from here, if that's alright." 

Castiel glances down at his watch. It's nine-fifteen in the morning, which means they have almost an hour and a half left together. Fifteen minutes doesn't sound like an issue, and with the way Castiel's stomach rumbles, hamburgers sound like a savior. 

"I'm gonna’ take that as a yes," Dean laughs, and he reaches out to poke his fingers into Castiel's side, which sends Castiel hurling into the door as he recoils with a grin at the tickle. 

"You know I'm starting to like doing that." 

"And I hate you for doing that," Castiel groans, shifting closer once Dean has retreated his hands onto the steering wheel. 

The engine roars, and the car rumbles under them as Dean uses the palm of his hand to steer the car around a turn. A mischievous grin tugs at Dean's lips. 

"You could never hate me." he quips, and Castiel simply hums and turns to lean into Dean's arms— rather boldly, but Dean slips an arm around him without a word and pulls him in, as if they've been doing this for ages. 

"So," Castiel starts, nipping at Dean's jaw, "-where are we going?" 

"Jesus, don't do that, you're gonna’ make me swerve." Dean laughs weakly. 

Castiel sucks another kiss onto his jaw, just to tease him. 

"Do what? This?" 

"You're a demon, you know that?" 

Castiel chuckles, nosing against Dean's neck as he hums and feels Dean's hand snake over his thigh. 

"Oh really? I thought you said I was an angel." 

"Hmm, it's debatable." 

"Shut up. Where are we going?" Castiel asks, and it sounds more like a whine this time, but Dean hasn't told him yet, and he's curious. Obviously, it won't matter, he trusts Dean's judgement. 

"There's this diner, Donnie's diner, cheap, convenient, pretty empty in the mornings, hella’ crowded in the evenings. They got amazing burgers, Cas. Anytime I needed some grease, that's where I'd go. It’s a little far, not much, but we’ll get there faster with the car." 

"Wow, you're taking me to a diner for our first date?" Castiel asks, half-joking, and his eyes fall to where Dean's hand has been rubbing his thigh for the past few minutes. 

"Yeah well, have you met me? Do I look like some kind of fancy hotshot to you?" 

"No. You look like a lumberjack to me." 

The remark earns him an eye roll from Dean, and Castiel snickers. 

"A very handsome lumberjack, though," Dean scoffs, and Castiel bites back a grin as he crosses a leg over the other in his seat. 

"Hmm, it's debatable," he chides, voice high and squeaky as he makes fun of Dean. Dean sends him a look, and Castiel snorts, basking in the ease between them. Somehow, being with Dean always makes him calm. He feels no need to hide who he is. He can be what he wants, say what he wants, do as he please, and he knows there is no judgement. Dean is always on the same page, and being with him flows through Castiel without any uncertainty. 

Twenty minutes later finds them jammed into the side of a booth in a bustling diner at ten-fifteen in the morning, and Castiel can barely hear himself over the chatter in the diner. There's the scent of various different spices, most prominently oil and meat, and with how hungry Castiel is, the scent only causes another rumble to shake his stomach. The diner is wide and spacious, white tiles on the floor, and a bright red paint on the walls, with weird, rock band murals. No wonder Dean likes this place. 

"You said it would be quiet," Castiel all but yells, and Dean leans in closer from the seat across Castiel. 

"I may have misjudged the Sunday crowd." 

"Forget it. Let's get some food." 

Castiel shrugs and grabs the laminated menu in front of them, eyes scanning down the paper until they land upon what he's looking for. He passes the menu over to Dean, who just pushes it away. Castiel supposes with all the times Dean seems to have been here, he knows what he wants already. 

A thin, blonde waitress walks up to them, her eyes beaming at Dean, and Castiel watches how she leans into him. She calls Dean by his name— which, yes, Castiel knows isn't something strange, since Dean's been here before, yet he can't help but frown when she brushes Dean's shoulder. 

"Dean, you need to watch your cholesterol." She giggles coyly, and claps a hand over Dean's shoulder after the both of them have told her their order. 

Castiel watches her body like a hawk, how her hips hover closer to Dean, how she leans into him, how her eyes barely leave Dean except to take Castiel's order. Castiel narrows his eyes at her. It's painfully obvious how she wants Dean to notice her, but Dean, his usual laid-back self, sticks her a stiff smile. Castiel notices Dean eyeing him from across the table, but there's an itch under Castiel's skin that urges him to send the waitress a sharp look. 

Then she mutters something Castiel doesn't really catch, maybe something he would have if he wasn't busy glaring at her, and she giggles and walks away. A hand, Dean's, slides over his on the table, and Castiel compels himself to tear his eyes away from the woman as she disappears behind the counter. 

"Cas." 

"What?" 

"You're staring." 

"No, I'm not." 

A wide grin spreads across Dean's face as he twines his fingers through Castiel's. 

"Yeah, you are. What, are you jealous?" 

"Jealous?" Castiel scoffs, "-why would I be jealous? Not like we're dating or something." 

"Aw, we're not?" Dean asks, his voice so weak, but somehow teasing at the same time. 

"No, I don't think I'd like to be in a relationship that lasts a day and a half." Castiel frowns, and a soft look gleams within Dean's eyes as he takes a pause. 

"We could try long-distance." 

A sigh slips past Castiel's lips as he picks at a fingernail on Dean's finger. 

"You know," Dean continues after Castiel remains silent, "-phone calls, video chat, texting, stuff like that." 

"I know what a long-distance relationship is, Dean." 

"We could do that, right?" Dean urges, and he links Castiel's fingers through his own, pulls his arms towards him until Castiel is slumping over the table, his hands in Dean's lap like a child, and Dean laughs. 

"Come on, Cas, let's be happy today, 'kay? I don't want my last day with you to be sad, I wanna’ make good memories with you." 

Their eyes meet across the table, and Castiel pulls his hands away to cross them over the table. He watches from the corner of his eyes as the waitress approaches again, this time with a tray in her hand. She beams at Dean as she sets their plates down. 

"Hey, you met my boyfriend yet?" A wide, shit-eating grin spreads over Dean's face, and Castiel blushes under Dean's praise. "-He's cute, ain’t he? A lil' grumpy right now, but that's 'cause he hasn’t had nothing to eat." 

Their waitress, on the other hand, looks like a kid who's been told Santa isn't real. 

"You're, uh— you have a boyfriend?" 

"We're just—" Castiel starts, but is cut off by Dean who grins at him. 

"Damn right I do." 

"Oh, uh, cool, great. I'll be around if you need me." And she's gone, vanished in the blink of an eye. 

"Why did you say that?" Castiel whispers, trying not to show his covert affection at Dean's brazen display. 

"'Cause I know you were jealous of her." 

Castiel falters, and feels his cheeks heat up. 

"N—no, I wasn't—" 

"Sure, you weren't. Anyways, food's here. Cas, I swear, this is good shit, okay? Like seriously, you're gonna’ love me after the first bite." Dean pushes Castiel's plate full of onion rings and a hamburger towards him, before grabbing his own plate. 

"I think I already do, but sure." 

Dean smiles, a gentle, knowing smile, and Castiel finds himself fascinated by the way his cheeks light up with red. He wraps his fingers around the hamburger, which seems to be oozing with butter and spices, and braces himself. He parts his lips, glances up at— 

Dean's eyes are fixed right onto him. 

"Stop staring at me, you're making me self-conscious." 

A deep, searing heat flares Castiel’s cheek as Dean falters and pulls away. 

"Sorry, I just, I want to know if you like it. Didn't mean to be creepy." 

Castiel smiles and tightens his grip around the buns before raising it to his mouth and sinking his teeth into the soft, fluffy bread. The meat is tender, oozing with oil, and it's the right amount of spicy and smokey, paired with the cool tanginess of the tomatoes and the crunch of the lettuce. The cheese sticks to his tongue, and he groans because it's been days since he had a burger — something greasy that will probably clog up his arteries. 

"Is it good?" 

Dean asks, expectant and waiting, and Castiel notes he hasn't even touched his own burger— strange considering how big of a foodie Dean is. 

"So good. This makes me very happy," Castiel mutters around his mouthful of burger, eyes shooting up to meet Dean's, who smiles wide and proud, banging the table with his fist. 

"I knew it." 

Right as Castiel swallows his bite down, Dean digs into his own burger, groaning obscenely, making Castiel laugh. They eat in silence for a few minutes, simply ravishing the taste of the food, before Dean grabs a paper napkin to wipe his fingers and glances up at Castiel, who he catches in the midst of a big bite. 

"You're so cute." 

Castiel simply raises his eyebrows, unable to answer with the burger in his mouth, and Dean pokes his puffed-up cheeks, to which Castiel simply rolls his eyes. Once he's swallowed the bite down, Castiel imitates Dean's previous actions— wipes his fingers on a napkin, and meets Dean's eyes to regard him with an expectant look. 

"So," Castiel starts, "-have you told Sam about me?" 

He doesn't really know why the question pops into his mind, but whenever Dean mentions their house at Lawrence, Castiel can't help but think of Dean's brother, although he's never seen him. 

"Erm, not yet. I mean, he knows I like someone. He just doesn't know who." 

"Did you not tell him on purpose? Because of the house?" 

Dean sucks in a breath before plucking a fry off the plate and popping it in his mouth. Castiel finds his eyes lingering on Dean's lips. 

"No, I just, we haven't talked in a long time. Dad and he don't get along easily. I mean, _didn't_." 

"I'm aware," Castiel urges him on. 

"Cas, it's just," Dean breathes out a sigh, before folding his hands over the table. "-He's in a world of his own now, he's happy. He has a wife, has a kid, who I have a picture of, by the way, she's really cute, and he's got his hotshot job. He's got the apple pie life. And part of me just..." 

"Envies him? I know how that feels." 

Their eyes meet, something unspoken dancing between their gaze, and Dean smiles. 

"Yeah. He's got it all. He's happy. And I'm..." 

"Are you not happy, Dean?" 

"I wasn't, before. But then you came out of nowhere, and then I just..." 

It's hard for Dean to express his emotions— Castiel can clearly see that in the way he clenches his fist, his jaw locking and eyes wandering meaninglessly over the table. 

"I felt happy, for the first time in a... in a very long time. But this past week... I haven't been alright, Cas. I know, I know, we said happy memories, but—" 

Castiel reaches for Dean's hand, and it comes easily, sliding into Castiel's as if it belongs there. Castiel strokes his thumb over Dean's rough knuckles. 

"Dean, you think you don't deserve this?" 

"No, it's just—" 

"You deserve this, Dean, you deserve happiness, and love, and good things. You know you have me, right? For anything, for everything. And I need you, Dean, I really do. You make me happier; you make me stronger; you make me want to be better for both of us." 

Dean is silent, his eyes glued to the table as he pointedly avoids meeting Castiel’s eyes. Castiel wants to hug him, squeeze him in his arms like he did the night before, but for now, due to the distance between them, he settles for a squeeze to Dean's hand. Dean looks up at him then, his green eyes teary and vulnerable, and something raw, something pure reflects within them. 

Castiel continues upon Dean's silence, and though he doesn't mean to scold Dean or admonish him, his voice is higher, firmer, and he feels the regret unfurling on Dean's face. 

"I'm trying really hard to keep myself together because I don't want to ruin this day for you. But you made a choice. You chose the house, you chose Lawrence, you chose your past because you're scared of what you could have in the future. You want more, you want new things, but you're not willing to give them a chance." 

"Cas, I didn't have a choice, I told you, they want me to either move in or sell the house—" 

Dean's eyes harden, lips twitching in a frown at Castiel's tone. They don't touch their half-eaten burgers then, because Castiel feels his eyes cloud with tears the moment Dean's lips tremble. 

"You had a choice. You made a decision, Dean. So, don't regret it," he says rather sharply, and Dean sucks in a breath. "-I can't do things for you, neither can I change the decisions you make. All I can do is tell you what I feel, and leave it at that." 

"I don't want to hurt you, Cas." 

_But you are. Not intentionally, but you are._

Silence falls upon them, and Castiel pulls his hand out of Dean's. He plucks a sweet potato fry from his plate and pops it in his mouth and they don't speak until Castiel has swallowed it down.

"If you wish to stay back here with me, nothing would make me happier.” Something about his voice has changed, though he didn’t mean to change it. It's softer. It's weaker. It's raw with emotions. “-But now you're leaving. And I know it hurts me, and it hurts you, but I will wait for you. If you ever want to turn back. I'll be right here. No matter what happens." 

Dean's eyes meet Castiel's and a soft grin takes the place of his frown. He reaches forward, his knuckles brushing over Castiel's cheek, and Castiel compels himself to hold Dean's gaze. 

"You'll wait? For me?" Dean asks.

"I will." 

Dean pauses. 

"Cas?" 

"Yeah?" 

"You ever kissed anyone who tastes like ketchup?" 

Castiel stares at Dean with a blank face—

"Would you like to?" 

_Oh._

"You’re an idiot, by the way.” 

Castiel groans, as he slips his arm around Dean's neck and pulls him into a kiss. 

Turns out, Dean is wrong. He doesn't taste like ketchup. He tastes like salty fries. 

And then it hits Castiel, just how much he's going to miss Dean. Miss him making stupid jokes. Miss the deliberately off-key songs he sings at the top of his voice. Miss the way he's childish, and makes Castiel want to be childish too. Miss the way he sounds. The way he feels. The way he tastes. And Castiel finds himself thinking of how he could spend a hundred years with Dean and never get tired of him, of the things he does, the things he says. It's magical, straight out of one of those heteronormative fairytales his mother read to him as a kid. So, there's no singing birds, or speaking mice, and sure, there's no ball-gowns or magic kingdoms, but somehow, Dean has rescued him out of his tower where he stayed cooped up all day, and swept him right off his feet the moment he stepped into Castiel's life. 

He's going to miss Dean. 

"I— I need to use the bathroom," Castiel mutters, breaking their kiss. Dean simply smiles at him. 

"To the right," he says, followed by, "-mind if I grab one of your fries?" 

Castiel nods, but he doesn't care about that anymore. He needs to get away from Dean, from the world, for a few moments. He needs a second to _breathe_. 

How he shuffles into the bathroom is a flurry of images, but it's nothing that concerns him. 

Behind him, he clicks the door shut. The bathroom is small, compact, made for one person only— which doesn't allow him much space to breathe— but the solitude is more than welcome. His hands wrap around the rim of the sink, and he doubles over as a stream of tears rolls down his face. His lips purse, his eyes ache, his vision is hazy, and he slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle the noise of his sobs as his tears, one by one by one, fall into the white, ceramic sink. 

_Deep breaths, it's okay, deep breaths, everything is going to be okay, I can still talk to Dean, I can still call him, I can still see him, I can still_ — 

_Dean is leaving. Leaving. Leaving me behind_. 

His head is dizzy, pounding with the slight traces of an oncoming headache, thumping deep inside him. He wants to hold Dean, the same way he did last night. He wants to stay in his arms, wake up with him, go to bed with him, kiss his stupid, salty mouth, listen to his favorite rock songs with him, hear his signature ‘ _mornin' sunshine’_ every time he wakes up, hear him say ‘ _Cas’_ for the rest of his life. He wants to do everything he possibly can with Dean. He wants it all. He wants Dean. And he can't have him. At least not all of him. 

_I can do this, right? I can go outside and put on a happy face, right? I can do this_. 

Castiel steadies himself, and glances up at the mirror. His eyes are red, rims puffy with tears, and his lips are quivering. Hating the image in front of him, he runs the tap and cups his hands under the gush of cold water before splashing it across his face, until the red of his eyes has faded away. There's a faint, crimson mark on his neck, one he knows Dean left the night before during one of their heated kisses. He runs a finger over the mark before grabbing a paper napkin from beside him and dabbing his face dry. Deep breaths, in and out, as he composes himself, and then he opens the door. 

When he steps out, he spots Dean on the other side of the diner, but he isn't eating. His phone is pressed to his ear, and he appears engrossed in a heated discussion with someone. Without a word, Castiel walks over to their booth and slips into his seat, sending Dean a cursory smile before averting his eyes. 

"... And? What do you want me to do about it, Sammy?" Dean groans. 

_He's talking to his brother?_

Castiel doesn't mean to eavesdrop, but Dean isn't moving away from him either, so Castiel supposes he doesn't mind Castiel's presence. 

"...Today, yes, in a while. In about... An hour or so... Yeah, it's by road. I'll be there in a day or two... I know you know that... I'm uh, actually having breakfast right now..." Their eyes meet for a brief moment, where Castiel studies him with utmost sincerity, until Dean's eyes falter, falling from Castiel to the table. 

"With uh, with a friend." 

Castiel doesn't comment. He simply grabs the remnants of his burger and chews. Dean pinches the bridge of his nose as he sighs, eyes shut and eyebrows knit in frustration. 

"... His name's Cas. He's my... He's my best friend." 

A smile graces Castiel’s lip at that. 

"... Hey, I'll call you soon, 'kay?" Dean mutters into the phone, before slipping it into his pocket. 

"I don't mind—" 

"S'okay, I can call him later." 

Their hands brush against each other on the table, eyes fixed onto each other, and all Castiel can think of is how he has nothing but an hour— less even— left with Dean. He tries not to let his tears cloud his eyes, especially since he's already admonished himself a few minutes ago. His smile falters on his face, and although it aches to turn down in a frown, Castiel compels himself to keep the smile plastered to his face. 

The movement of someone close to them draws Castiel out of his trance, and he blinks up at a waitress, who clears their dishes away on a tray and wipes the table clean. Dean grabs a paper napkin and rubs his hands clean, and Castiel does the same. They reach for their wallets at the same time, and Dean sends Castiel a threatening look. 

"No way,” he says, “-put that back right now. I took you out, this one's on me." 

"Dean, it's okay—" 

"Castiel, no." 

"But—" 

"I said put it back." 

Sighing, Castiel puts his wallet away, but not before grumbling about it. They slide out of the booth and turn towards the glass door. A few long moments later, they're seated in Dean's car without surprisingly, having spoken in the past few minutes. Of course, the silence isn't as torturous as it had been a few days ago, but it does itch under Castiel's skin. 

"Say something," Dean says, his voice soft, urging. 

"Say what?" 

"Anything." 

Castiel pauses. 

"Anything," he says with conviction. 

Dean sighs and fixes him with a look before sliding his hands over Castiel's thigh. 

"Really, so innovative." 

"Well, what do you want me to say? You know I don't do small talk," 

Castiel scoffs, and Dean laughs as he pulls the car out of their parking. In a few seconds they're on the road, the Impala rumbling, the heater whirring, and the touch of Dean's hand to his skin. 

"Being a lil' unimaginative over there, _Blue_." 

Dean's voice is soft, and their eyes meet in the rearview mirror when Dean laces his fingers through Castiel's and gives it a squeeze. Castiel lets his hand linger in Dean's, lets the warmth between them settle, lets the silence between them hang, and his eyes wander out the window. 

Dean might think Castiel is being quiet, as he always tends to be. In reality, Castiel just doesn't want to show Dean the tears that roll down his face, one after the other. 

A glance at his watch tells Castiel it's around ten forty-five AM. 

Fifteen minutes from now, they'll be standing by their apartment building. 

An hour from now, Castiel will be in his one-room apartment. No trace of Dean around him. And he knows he'll be in his bed. Curled up in his comforter. Too numb to move. 

A week from now, he knows he'll still be numb. A month from now, who knows? A year from now? Can't tell. 

A flurry of images zooms past the window where Castiel gazes out. Lights— red, green, blue, yellow; and buildings— small, big, short, tall— all pass by in a haze, as if in a film roll. That is when Castiel realizes, _now_ is all he has. 

"Sweetheart? Talk to me?" 

_Screw it._

Castiel turns to Dean, lips quivering as his tears roll down his face, and he slips his arm around Dean's torso to burrow himself within Dean's side. 

If his silence is any judgement, Dean appears to be stunned for a moment, before his arm tightens around Castiel, the other still firm on the steering wheel. 

"Hey, Cas, what's wrong?" 

" _What's wrong?_ Don't ask stupid questions," he sniffles and watches as Dean pulls up to a familiar neighbourhood, _their_ neighbourhood. 

"Cas..." 

Dean doesn't say anything else, and Castiel takes that as an indication to shuffle closer to him, to press against his chest, and absorb the warmth he exudes. Castiel shuts his eyes and allows himself to be held. Dean's arm, long and broad, wraps around his back to settle at his waist, and Castiel sniffles, trying to suppress his sobs. 

"Why do you have to go?" 

It's more of a complaint than a question, and Castiel's voice is wet, soaked with emotion as he speaks. Dean only rubs his waist in answer. 

The car comes to a stop, and silence fills the air around them. Deafening. Repulsive. Nauseating silence. Castiel doesn't open his eyes, doesn't want to open his eyes, until he feels Dean move, feels his body turn, feels his hands slipping under Castiel's arms to wrap around his back, feels him rocking Castiel back as their lips brush in a soft, pleading kiss. Castiel pleads for Dean to never leave. He knows Dean pleads for things to be different. 

Part of him is aware only Dean has the power to change his decision, and until Dean does so, no amount of convincing or pleading will make him stay. 

"Dean, I need you, please—" Castiel moans into their kiss, and his eyes flutter open for a moment to watch as Dean's lips drag down his neck, nipping at a mark he left on Castiel's neck. All Castiel can do is thread his fingers through Dean's hair and urge him on as their eyes slip shut and Dean moves up once again to capture Castiel's lips in a soft, prolonged kiss, where he nips at Castiel's bottom lip, drags his tongue over the seam of their lips, and works his hands at Castiel's waist. 

"I got you, baby, I got you." Dean mumbles, on and on, between each kiss. The coherent part of him knows they should stop doing this out here in the open— anyone could walk by and see them sucking each other's faces off— but part of him never wants to stop, wants Dean to touch him, everywhere and anywhere, but when he pulls away to breathe, Dean sits up for good. 

"Cas. Cas, look. It's snowing." 

_Snowing?_

With his back still on the leather seat, Castiel can only see a glimpse of what is happening outside. As he sits up, Dean rolls the window down, and a breeze of cold, chilling air swarms in through the open window. For a better look, Castiel climbs onto Dean's lap, settling there for a while, his arms looped around Dean's neck as he stares out the window. 

Beautiful, white petals fall through the sky, touching the ground with feather-light touches, and Castiel's lips fall open in awe. 

It's snowed countless times in New York City before, but somehow, _this_ snow feels special. It feels as if it were falling only for them, for Dean and Castiel, floating through the air and landing on the ground for no one _but_ them. Dean holds his hand out the window, and Castiel's eyes follow the movement as a few beads of white snow settle on his open palm. Dean flicks his palm over Castiel's hair with a rich laugh. Castiel simply shakes his head, running his hands through his hair to shuck the melting snow away, and Dean reaches up to cup his cheek. Their eyes meet, and Castiel feels a pang of guilt course through his veins as Dean reaches up to steal a soft kiss off his passive lips. 

"Let's go outside," he suggests, and Castiel nods. He climbs off Dean's lap and swings the car door open, a prickling, sharp gush of cold air stinging his face prompting him to tug at his jacket— no, Dean's jacket— closer to his chest. He catches the top of Dean's head from across the roof of the car and walks around to find Dean leaning against the door of his car, his hands stuffed in his pocket. 

Dean opens his arms, urging Castiel to settle within them, and Castiel goes, without a word, slipping his arms around Dean's waist, feeling the warmth of his body seep into his own. Dean’s arms hold him in place, and Dean reaches down to capture his lips in a kiss. 

"You know," Castiel says a few moments after they pull away, "-they say snow symbolizes a new beginning, purity and innocence." 

"Not in the books I've read. Snow always means sorrow." Dean's eyes shine with a glint of regret, and Castiel wonders if he feels as helpless as Castiel does in that moment. 

"It comes down to what you choose to see it as, then." 

Thick fingers brush over Castiel's forehead, and his eyes flutter shut. 

"I gotta’ leave, Cas." 

"Stay, please, five more minutes." 

Dean doesn't answer, neither does he make an effort to move, so Castiel stays put in his arms. 

Being held in Dean's embrace reminds Castiel of a home he's never been to before. 

"This reminds me of a quote, you know," Castiel says after a while, and the knowing smile on Dean's face is no surprise. 

"’M gonna’ miss you and your stupid quotes." 

"They're not stupid," Castiel pouts, only to meet Dean's broad smile. "-Besides, this one I wrote myself. I tend to just say its author is unknown, because I don't want to sound too pretentious." 

Dean laughs, but his eyes twinkle with wonder as he brushes his nose against Castiel's, and a flurry of warmth unfurls inside Castiel's chest at the casual gesture. 

"Let's hear it then." 

"To love someone is to tread through thick snow, for even though you might not look back, your footsteps will always leave a mark." 

"That's a very beautiful thought, sweetheart. What made you think of it?" Dean’s arms tighten around Castiel. 

"You." 

"Why me?" 

"Because I don't think the marks you've left in my life will ever disappear," Castiel answers, sliding his arms around Dean's neck as he reaches up to pull Dean down into a brief kiss. 

"I wish I could stay," Dean mumbles, a few seconds after they pull away. 

"Then stay. It's as easy as that." 

"It's easier to say, Cas," Dean starts, and Castiel sighs. 

"Reminds me of another quote," He smiles weakly, "- _It will never rain roses: when we want to have more roses, we must plant more roses._ It's by—" 

"George Eliot. I know." 

Castiel's eyes widen at Dean's answer, and he pulls away a bit, mostly in awe as he studies Dean's face. The gleaming of his vivid green eyes, the smile at his lips, the thick, coarse skin of the scar running down his face. He feels at peace, more connected to Dean, more than he's ever been before. 

"How do you always...?" 

"I don't know." Dean smiles, and there is truth to his words. 

"But you know what the quote means, don't you?" Castiel asks. 

"'Course I do." 

"Just checking." 

Silence falls upon them for a few moments, where Dean and Castiel simply stare at one another as the world whitens around them, drowning in the beauty of the first snow of the season. 

"Cas—" 

"Dean—" 

They start in tandem and pause in tandem. Castiel simply stares at Dean for a moment, before Dean speaks, "-You first." 

"I was just..." Castiel starts, his hands running down Dean's shoulder to link with his palms. His eyes wander behind Dean to the park they'd walked through the night before. In the daylight, it appears much livelier. "-I was going to ask you if you had time for a walk?" 

Dean's eyes soften and wander down to the ground as he sighs, evidently crestfallen. 

"I was going to tell you I need to leave soon." 

For a moment, the world around Castiel comes to a crashing halt as he drinks in the truth of Dean's words. _Leave_. _Dean needs to leave_. 

Before he can stop himself, his eyes cloud with tears, and he feels a single, small tear roll down his face. 

_Dean is leaving_. 

"Guess we're not always on the same page, huh?" he hiccups, and Dean nudges him forward by the back of his head, pulling him closer to himself as he rests his cheek against Castiel's. 

"Guess not." 

Dean's voice is wet. It's quiet. And it churns inside Castiel's gut, sending a searing pain right through his chest as he weeps—not cries— weeps against Dean's chest. 

"You'll call? Promise?" he croaks, his voice broken as he sniffles, and wipes his tears against Dean's shoulder. A warm hand braces the back of his head, stroking through his hair, and Castiel lets out another sob, his lips trembling, eyes swollen, face damp. 

At once everything around them stills, and yet, everything seems to move further and further away, as if the world is spiraling out, and Castiel is its vortex. 

"On my life," Dean whispers, and his lips press against the side of Castiel's head. 

Standing there, under the falling snow, out in the open, buried in each other's arms, Castiel knows they should be more considerate about where they are, but screw the world. Screw it for being so brash, for being so unfair, for taking away from Castiel the one thing he _loves_ more than himself. _For taking away Dean._

"And you won't forget me?" Castiel asks, despite knowing the answer deep within himself. 

"You think I could if I tried?" Dean's voice quivers, and his tears fall against Castiel's hand on his cheek. 

For a moment, Castiel pulls away and tilts his chin up to meet Dean's eyes. 

"And you'll come back, right?" 

"Of course." 

Castiel sucks in a shaky breath, biting on the inside of his lips to refrain a loud sob he feels rising at the back of his throat, and it dissipates into a helpless sigh as he clutches onto Dean's jacket, eyes falling to a loose thread at the hem. 

"Hey, hey, no crying sweetheart, you promised, no crying," Dean whispers, and at once, his nose is pressed against Castiel's cheek, lips barely brushing over Castiel's as a sob slips past his lips. 

"And you promised you wouldn't ditch me," Castiel mutters, "-guess we're both breaking some promises." 

In the blink of an eye, Dean's face smooths out into something inscrutable, and he pulls Castiel close to bury himself in his shoulder, a loud sob breaking through the silence between them. 

"I'm sorry, Cas,” he sobs, “-I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, I just, I'm so sorry, Cas—" 

"You can change things if you want. But you're too scared to," Castiel whispers, his lips ghosting over Dean's ears as he wraps his arms tight around Dean. 

Dean, however, pulls away as if he's lost, and his perplexed gaze meets Castiel's. 

"What do you mean? Why do you think I'm scared, Cas?" 

"Because if you weren't," Castiel cradles Dean's jaw in his hands, "-you'd be much happier about the decision you made. Rule of thumb, Dean, the happiest choice is always the hardest one. But I don't blame you. You've been through enough, and you don't need the guilt. So, go, before I kidnap you and imprison you in my one-room apartment." A wet chuckle falls past Castiel's lips, and though he expects Dean to smile at the jest, he doesn't. His eyes harden, something along the lines of guilt blooming within them, and he pulls away, his hands sliding down Castiel's arms to hook through his fingers, before Castiel pulls his hands away. 

_He has to leave. Leave before he sees me fall apart_. 

"I'll see you soon, sweetheart." 

"I hope so." Castiel swallows thickly, thumbs running down Dean's cheekbones. 

A moment passes between them, where they stand, simply gazing at each other, until Dean grins. 

"I don't want to move." Castiel smiles, his lips parting as he recites another quote— " _How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard_." 

"What's that from?" Dean asks, voice a whisper.

"Winnie the Pooh," Castiel chuckles, and feels Dean smile against him as he drops a soft kiss over his cheek. He moves away, as if to study Castiel. 

"Call me when you get home. Or when you take a break." 

"I will," Dean says, and then, "-I love you." 

"I love you too. So much, Mr.Green." 

Dean's fingers run through Castiel's hair one last time as he dives down for a kiss. 

It's tender, it's wet, it's reaffirming, it's _final_. Their tears fall to the ground, but their lips never part as Castiel drinks in the taste of his lover's lips, restraining a sob that threatens to rise at the back of his throat. A few long seconds later, Dean pulls away at last. Castiel steps back, not wanting to prolong Dean's departure, and watches as Dean leans back against his car. 

"I love you," Dean calls out from where he's standing. 

"I love you too," Castiel yells out from where he slowly steps away, staggering back until his back hits a wall, and he finds himself standing right outside the entrance to their apartment. 

_Need to cry. Need to get home. Need to sleep. Need Dean_. 

Dean smiles, and Castiel etches the smile into his memory, before Dean turns away, and swings the door to his car open. Before he can slip in, however, someone walks up to him, a man, who Castiel knows as... 

"Mr. Kreschner?" he asks, mostly to himself as Kreschner pats Dean on the shoulder and envelopes him with a hug when he turns towards him. For a fleeting second, Dean's eyes meet Castiel's and Castiel's breath hitches in his throat, before Dean turns his gaze back down. 

They speak for a while. Dean is smiling, although sadly, and Kreschner is... Castiel can't see Kreschner's face, but he knows he's speaking. And then, at once, something changes in the air between them. Something that tenses Dean's shoulders, something that hardens his eyes, something that washes over Dean, and for a second, his and Castiel’s eyes meet from across the parking lot. Castiel wants to smile, but he can't, because there is an intensity in Dean's eyes— something resolute, something shattering. 

Dean's eyes drop down to Kreschner, who claps him on the shoulder once before turning and meeting Castiel's eyes. Castiel's breath hitches. How does he even know where Castiel is? Has he been watching him the whole time? He walks with his cane and limps over to where Castiel is standing, but Castiel couldn't care less as he watches Dean send him a smile, a sad, broken smile, before slipping into his car. 

_That's it._

_Dean is leaving._

_Dean is gone._

Castiel's heart pounds in his chest, and he reaches up to wipe his sleeve over his face. 

"Hard, ain't it?" 

The voice draws Castiel out of his thoughts, and he turns to find Mr. Kreschner standing right next to him, his cane held in both hands as he leans back against the wall. 

"What?" 

"I said it's hard, isn't it, saying goodbye?" 

"It is. It's very hard." 

"You know, boy, I knew there was somethin' going on between the two of you the moment you spoke to me the other day. When you was out with all those brown bags." 

Castiel recalls their conversation. The same conversation he had with Kreschner the day he fought with Dean. 

"Oh?" 

Mr. Kreschner smiles, all gummy and wide as he claps Castiel on the shoulder. Part of Castiel wants Kreschner to leave him alone, to leave him to mope to himself, to cry, to regret, to brood, but part of him appreciates the empathy Kreschner shows him, especially the silent, mutual understanding lingering between them. 

"Yeah, I could see it in your eyes, y'know. When you spoke 'bout him." 

Castiel feels his face heat up under Kreschner's gaze, but he compels himself to keep his head up as he watches Dean's car, his Baby, pull out of the parking lot. Without bothering to send Castiel a single glance, the car speeds down the narrow road, out the gates of their apartment complex, and Castiel hangs his head down. 

_Dean is gone. He left._

"Love hurts," Mr. Kreschner starts. 

"Tell me about it," Castiel scoffs, a heartless smile gracing his lips. 

"But that doesn't mean it isn't worth fighting for." 

_That doesn't mean it isn't worth fighting for_. 

"That's what I told the other boy, that hunk of yours." 

Castiel lets out a wet laugh. "He's gone, Mr. Kreschner. Nothing left to fight for anymore." 

With that, Castiel turns away, taking a step forward towards the entrance to his apartment, but a hand on his shoulder stops him. 

"You should wait." 

"I'd rather cry in the silence of my room than down here, Mr. Kreschner," Castiel says, rather bluntly.

A knowing smile graces Kreshcner's lips, but Castiel finds it hard to understand what it is about. His shoulders slump, and he turns back to Mr. Kreschner, a defeated glint in his eyes. 

"I'm on my own now," Castiel starts, "-and I'll be the same for a long while now." 

Somehow, there is an amiable expression in Mr. Kreschner's eyes as he urges Castiel towards himself, and rubs his shoulder. 

"You need to wait. Just for a few more moments, Castiel." 

"Why?" Castiel asks, exasperated, because _goddammit_ , he wants to go home. He wants to go home, bury himself under the comforter and cry. Wants to grab a bottle of beer and down it until he can't feel a thing. Until he's numb. He's never felt this urge before, the urge to ruin himself, even if it's for a few seconds, but now that Dean's gone, things don't fit into place anymore. Bees aren't cute, kittens aren't adorable, pie tastes disgusting, and rock music is trash. 

"Because patience, my boy, is what matters. There are things you think you can't have, but don't worry. The world isn't as unfair as you think it is, especially not to lovers." 

And with that, Mr. Kreschner clicks his cane on the ground, and walks away, leaving Castiel to himself. Castiel glances at the road, then turns away, hitching Dean's jacket closer to him on his chest as he takes a few heavy steps forward. 

Right as he's about to enter the building, however, a voice yells out to him, 

"Cas— " 

A _very_ familiar voice. 

"Dean?" Castiel gasps, and turns around, watching as the Impala, black and mighty in all its beauty, roars, it’s engine screeching to a halt a few feet away from Castiel. 

It's as if his body doesn’t work at his volition anymore, because Castiel can't move, can't walk, can't speak. His throat is dry, his legs are stuck to the ground, but the world is moving, more importantly, Dean is moving, _closer and closer_ to him with every passing moment, and Castiel wants to say something, ask him something, but he's paralyzed.

Then, there is the firm, crushing press of lips to his own. His eyes slip shut, and only once there's a pair of broad arms sliding around his waist, can he move, and the first thing he does is pull Dean closer to himself, suck his lips until they're swollen and their breaths are stuttering, until there's not a single inch of distance between them, until Castiel's body all but melds into Dean's. 

" _Cas_ ," Dean gasps the moment he pulls away, the word as needy as a prayer, as he scrunches the front of Castiel's shirt in his hands as he holds on, like Castiel might disappear any second. 

"Dean? What are you—?" 

The rest of Castiel's words are swallowed up by another press of Dean's lips against his own, and Castiel hums into the kiss. Strong, broad arms wrap around his face, pulling him closer, as he braces himself by clutching Dean's shoulders, their lips hungry and keen, laced with passion, so much passion from Dean, who kisses Castiel like there's no tomorrow. 

Castiel wants answers. He needs answers. And there is only one way to get them. As much as he loves the press of Dean's lips to his own, the flutter in his gut, and the sparks under his skin when they touch, he pushes Dean away, eyes blinking open as they stare at each other, awestruck, perplexed, incredulous until Castiel's senses kick back in. 

"Dean, what the _hell_ are you doing?" 

Something twinkles within Dean's eyes, something amused and careless, and he wraps Castiel in a tight hug, until Castiel gives in and loops his hands around Dean's neck. 

"My promise. ‘M keeping my promise." 

"What promise?" Castiel asks, restless, as he strives to know more, strives to know what Dean is doing, what he wants to do. 

"I promised I wouldn't ditch you. I'm not gonna’ ditch you." 

Castiel feels his eyes pool with tears, and although Dean dives down for a kiss, Castiel presses his cold, numb fingers to Dean's lips, eyes wandering back to the car parked a few feet from them, before drifting them back to Dean. "You're...? You're not leaving?" 

A broad grin spreads across Dean's face as he kisses Castiel's fingers. 

"No. Never." 

Everything but Dean fades into white noise, into something grey that isn't important, and all Castiel can see is Dean, bleeding his color into the world. For a moment, he finds himself speechless. _Silent. Stunned._

And then the words settle. 

"So, you're not going back to Lawrence?" 

"Nope." 

"And you're staying here? With me?" Castiel asks, his voice wet, breaking with the sob rising at the back of his throat. A tear rolls down his face as he gazes up at Dean. 

"Yeah, Cas,” Dean whispers, his hands bracing the side of Castiel's face as he smiles, his tears rolling down the curve of his lips. “-‘m staying here with you. Forever, as long as you'll have me." 

"Really?" 

Dean only nods with a jerk, and pulls Castiel into a hug, placing his hand over the back of Castiel's head, dropping gentle kisses over his forehead and hair as he squeezes Castiel in his arms. Castiel grabs onto Dean's shirt, burying his face in Dean’s calming scent, which now provides him with nothing but reassurance, as he smiles, tears staining Dean's jacket. Then he pulls away and cups Dean's jaw in his hands. 

"You won't leave?" he finds himself asking, over and over again, still shaken, still in awe of Dean standing in his arms, unbudging and firm, his lips kissing each inch of Castiel's face. 

"Never." 

"I love you, so much, so much," Castiel breathes out, only for his words to be muffled when Dean captures his lips in a kiss, resting his forehead against Castiel's. 

"I love you too, sweetheart. Can't tell you how much. So much it hurts me. And I was wrong. I chose to go back, 'cause it was easy, 'cause I wouldn't have to change anything. But now you're here, and I love you so much, and what I feel for you, what _you_ make me feel, nothing could ever come above it. So, yeah, Cas, ‘m gonna’ stay here, and I don't know what I'll do, if I'll have to sell the house, or if I'll have to get a new job, but I don't care. I'm going to stay here, and I'm going to make you happy every damn day. I'm going to make sure you never, ever get hurt again." 

Castiel all but _melts_ in Dean's arms. 

"You came back," he states, but his voice is soft, barely a whisper. 

"'Course I did. Look what I had waiting for me. Can you believe how stupid I was? Giving this up?" Dean gives a wet chuckle, and Castiel nods, his emotions getting the best of him as he lets out another sob, squeezing Dean's cheeks in his hands as he nods. 

"Stupid. So stupid," he mutters, and in a heartbeat, Dean's lips are on his. The kiss is brief, but it lingers on Castiel's lips, and all the while, Castiel can think of nothing but the fact that Dean is here. That he's standing here in Castiel's arms, despite the fact that he _isn't_ supposed to be here. That he's choosing Castiel. That something changed within him, something that made him come back to Castiel. 

_Dean is here._

_And he's never leaving._

_Dean is here for me._

_He came back._

"Love you Cas, so much," Dean mumbles between a few pecks, "-I'll always come back to you." 

"Promise?" 

"Promise. Never gonna’ ditch you." 

A silence falls upon them as Castiel sucks in a breath, eyes fluttering open to meet Dean's teary green eyes. Absently, he reaches his thumb down to wipe away the tears at Dean's face, despising the way they stain his skin. 

"Besides,” Dean says, “-if I left, how would I hear you sing crappy Backstreet Boys songs at the top of your lungs each morning?" 

"Shut up," Castiel mumbles, and when his eyes shut, he finds himself at peace, at ease; finds himself falling into tranquility, one he finds only with Dean. 

"Let's go home," he mutters after a while. 

Dean simply squeezes his arms around him, and buries his face into Castiel's neck. 

"Five more minutes, Cas. Just five." 

A pause ensues between them. 

"Five more minutes,” Dean repeats. 

"We have time, Dean. We have all the time in the world." 

The world as it is, remains unchanged. The snow falls. The birds chirp. The trees sway. The wind blows.

But in a moment, Castiel finds himself standing in a brighter world, where the sun, the moon, and the stars— all belong to Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this one! I'll be participating next year as well, hopefully. Let me know your feedback in the comments and don't forget to leave a kudos! Once again, thank you to my beta, my artist, as well as the moderators for allowing me to enjoy this new experience so much! Love you guy!❤✨
> 
> Also, here is the link for the [art masterpost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27292267), if anyone wants to check it out!


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